


Love with Caution

by humble_beginnings



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Grief, Suicide, Tom retires from acting, loss of former partner, minor character death in past, minor character with autism, suicide (hanging)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-10 02:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humble_beginnings/pseuds/humble_beginnings
Summary: Tom is content working as an assistant at the Donmar Warehouse after stepping away from acting after Coriolanus to spend time with his terminally ill love. Two years after Cora's death will he ever really move on, or has his chance at true love passed?Follows Broken Little Heart and Remember to Live.





	1. British Birds of Prey

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: there are mentions of death from heart failure and terminal illness (in the past), terrorist / suicide bombing in central London.

## Olivia

_Morning._   
_A dreary London morning, complete with thick grey clouds that don't so much rain as they just hang low and let their moisture permeate every part of the city._   
_A woman, on the train. Lost in thought, perhaps reading a book or listening to music. Or both, if she's reached supreme master level of multitasking genius. She stands from her seat, turns toward the rest of the carriage, pulls a pistol from the back of her pants..._   
_No. Too human. And too close to home._   
_She rises with a creak of her seat and turns toward the rest of the carriage, raising one hand while staring at a man in the back. As though flicking away a bug in mid air, she flicks the middle finger of her right hand from the end of her thumb and the man falls unmoving onto the floor. She moves on to another, and another without resistance, only returning to her seat and calmly opening her book when the rest of the occupants lie lifeless._   
_And so begins the demise of the human race._

“Terrible,” I mutter to myself, looking up from the looped handwriting in my notebook as we pull into the station. People shuffle onto the carriage with briefcases and backpacks, satchels, handbags, and newspapers. Almost all have a phone in their hand and earbuds blocking their ears, barely looking up enough to be sure they don't trip or miss a seat. Right before the doors close an impossibly tall man slinks elegantly between them, ducking his head unnecessarily and pulling his satchel close to his body as though its contents are fragile and priceless. His eyebrows furrow as he looks around for a seat, scanning over mine twice but never coming to rest before he spots the empty space at the end of the opposite row and lowers himself into it.

Even for someone who rides this train every weekday at least – I wouldn't know about weekends but I've sat across from him for almost a year now, even the snow day last year didn't interfere with his routine – he still looks like a puppy trying to sit for the first time on a smooth slope. His long limbs are awkwardly sized for the height of the seats and despite the book he will eventually pull out consistently holding his attention he never stops moving. I can never work out if he's uncomfortable or just hyperactive, perhaps a combination of both.

As an author – with only one book published I still feel uncomfortable calling myself that, but I qualify – I love nothing more than people-watching, which is why I spend this time on the train with only a notebook and some quiet background music playing on my iPod. My head is rarely buried in a book like it is at home but up and looking around, taking in every habit and quirk of those around me. This particular man is one I've been caught staring at on more than one occasion, and I've been known to wear sunglasses some mornings to get a better look. With those higher-than-heaven cheekbones and a jaw so sharp it should be illegal the good lord made him to be appreciated, and I'm not the only one who pauses for a second look. That isn't to say I just sit and ogle him every day with pink puffy hearts bulging out of my eyes, the man is generally a people-watchers dream right down to his fidgety hands and ever-tapping feet, his sometimes unusual book selections. He's the people-watching equivalent of the red-footed falcon.

Today's book turns out to be the same as yesterday's – Middlemarch. He doesn't see it but I give him a shallow nod and smile of approval, I'm a big fan of George Eliot myself not only for her intelligent and thought-provoking work but also because she was a female writing under a male name in order to be taken seriously, and I've done similar by choosing a gender neutral pseudonym for mine. For so long I was known as the token geeky female – with an interest in science fiction that automatically made me 'one of the boys' whether I liked it or not – that I came to realise my book would be more successful if it weren't obviously written by a woman, and I was right. The two publishers who turned me down both met with me in person, the third assumed I was male and I didn't correct them until they'd accepted my manuscript for publishing. They later confirmed off the record that certain genres sell better if they're written by a man. Eliot, we've come a long way since the 1850s, and yet sometimes it doesn't feel so far at all.

I wonder, as I often do, where he works and what he does. We both alight the train every morning at Covent Garden and proceed in different directions – me to either the British Library or the office I share, and him to wherever he goes. In my imagination he might be a spy, infiltrating some billion-dollar illegal operation to bring down the mastermind once and for all, risking life and limb to succeed where all others have failed. Then again, those particular limbs would make it impossible for him to blend in to the background unnoticed, hard as he seems to try. Perhaps a dancer, then. His lean physique certainly lends itself to the graceful lilt of the ballet... but no, his feet lack the natural first position walk that screams _prima ballerina_. Or _premier danseur_ in this case, I suppose.

He smiles at something on the page, just enough curling of his thin lips to hint at a dimple before it's gone and the serious furrowed brow returns. Interesting in their own right, his eyebrows seem to have their own emotions which they express at every opportunity completely independent from the rest of his face and each other. His face is reminiscent of the great Charlie Chaplin in its expressiveness, he'd be outstanding in a silent film. At the same time his smiles are rare and closely guarded, as though each one costs him dearly.

As he shifts his book to the other hand I admire his fingers caressing the spine, their length effortlessly supporting a novel I'd require two hands for. Those hands were the first thing that drew my attention on the day he first graced the carriage with his presence. That day he kept his gaze solely on the floor, his broad shoulders tucked forward and tall frame slumped like someone who's spotted the ticket inspectors when they were planning a free ride, the man who is always chosen as a volunteer at the circus because he practically screams 'don't pick me'. That day his hands were sweaty, he wiped them on his thighs at least fifty times before we arrived. If he was nervous about an interview or his first day on the job then it took him months to feel secure in the position, the shift from then to now has been gradual and I wouldn't be surprised if there was some sort of therapy involved.

Probably not a spy, then.

Noticing people's hands is something I can thank my mum for, she places a lot of weight in a nice pair of hands and honestly believes you can trust a man with 'nice' hands. I'm still not a hundred percent clear on her definition of 'nice' but I do know it varies greatly from mine – nice to her means unweathered and cared for whereas I don't mind a few rough edges in my men. As a musician I know exactly what she'd say if she saw these fine examples – she'd sigh and say 'god wanted that man to play the piano. Liszt himself would be green with envy.'

She's right. My money is and always has been on musician of some description. A concert pianist, the head of a music faculty or a teacher at Trinity College who tutors only for the smiles on children's faces when they discover the joys of musicality. Maybe it's just a second job and he plays the double bass or violin in an orchestra by night. Maybe what he's protecting in that satchel is actually a bassoon, which would earn him my eternal respect – those require an expertise held by only an elite few. My mother had quite a preference for the double-reed players before meeting my dad. At school when I had to choose an instrument she was disappointed I wouldn't even try an oboe or bassoon, but as a teenage girl putting anything in your mouth after it's been in someone else's was a new level of gross even before there was blowing involved. I redeemed myself by passing the exams for Fellowship at Trinity College for both violin and piano before college got in the way but now I only really play when I'm at home with them, my apartment just isn't big enough for a piano.

After a quick coffee stop I let myself in to a tall brick building and take the elevator beside the ground floor florist up to the top level. It is the height of laziness, really, but my clumsiness makes taking the stairs with two large coffee cups a recipe for second degree burns.  
“Good morning, sunshine. Brought you coffee.”  
“Olivia,” Jonah says sternly. “He gave it to you on the house again, didn't he?”  
“No...”  
“You said brought, not bought. If you paid for it you'd have said bought.”  
“All right, yes. I’ve been quite clear that I’m flattered but not interested, what do you want me to do? Physically put money in his underwear? Swipe my card in his – ”  
“Ok, ok. I get it. You could always go to another coffee cart.”  
“But this one is right around the corner, on the most direct route from the station. And Harry makes amazing coffee.”  
Harry the coffee guy has been hassling me for a date for about six months now, at least twice a week he insists on giving me free coffee and writing his number on my cup. I’ve done the responsible thing and had a firm conversation about not wanting to take advantage of his kindness, I’ve told him I don’t want to be rude but I’m just not interested and I think he should stop, but he doesn’t. His response was that he thinks I’m gorgeous and funny and I make him smile every morning so why shouldn’t he be allowed to shout me a coffee that doesn’t cost him much, he’s well aware of my feelings and I’m not leading him on. So I continue to make him smile and laugh, I stop every morning for a coffee and a chat, and he occasionally won’t let me pay.

I fail to see a problem, but everything for Jonah must absolutely be black and white. We’ve been close since he agreed to help me in maths – a decision he tells me he regretted immediately but didn’t know how to tell me – and while his brain is still a total mystery to me I can often predict his reactions, even if they don’t make sense to the rest of the world. For example he was diagnosed as a child with Asperger’s syndrome, but a few years ago that term was abolished in favour of Autism Spectrum Disorder. While a number of adults who labelled themselves ‘Aspie’ before would still use it, Jonah is adamant that the absolute black and white correct terminology be used and anyone who mentions it will be subject to a lengthy lecture on its history and defunctness. Similar to my reaction when people say ‘oh, your friend is like Rain Man!’, only without the violence. He’s high functioning, leads a somewhat modified version of a ‘normal’ life and runs a very successful consultancy as a financial analyst, using his natural affinity with numbers for profit. He’s also hilariously funny, with a wit as sharp as a knife once he’s comfortable enough in your company. Socially he gets by, he had one relationship just out of high school but the poor guy lacked the maturity and patience to deal with a teenage boyfriend with surging hormones messing with his autistic brain and I think Jonah had too much riding on it, he was clinging to that relationship too hard because he had something to prove.

I’ll never forget listening to his conversation with his parents through the paper thin walls of their tiny London flat. He was so brave, his voice barely trembled when he told them he was gay, and he didn’t let a tear fall until I threw my arms around him and promised they’d come around eventually. The next day he made his move on the guy he’d been crushing on for months, hoping that having a boyfriend would prove to his mum and dad that it was in no way ‘just a phase he’d grow out of’. The boyfriend didn’t last but they did come around after a couple of years, they’ve also since moved to Spain so he doesn’t care so much what they think.

“What was Tom reading this morning?”  
“Who?” I ask, opening my laptop.  
“I’m sticking with the acronym. What was he reading?”  
I sigh and smile. A number of weeks ago Jonah decided we talk and gossip so much about the man on the train that he needed a name and ended up with MoT or MmoT – (Mystery) Man on the Train – which he reversed to make Tom. It kind of makes sense I guess, even if it’s a roundabout way to get there.  
“Still Middlemarch.”  
He screws his nose up. “Slow reader.”  
“It’s been two days, Jonah. Give him a chance, he does have a day job.”  
“We think he does, for all you know he just reads all day.”  
I wonder what he does, whether his reading choices have anything to do with his job?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mention of a terror attack in London

## Tom

_Explain! Tell a man to explain how he dropped into hell! ... I never had a preference for her, any more than I have a preference for breathing. No other woman exists by the side of her._

I deliberately hold back from touching the necklace that hangs from my neck, even without doing so I can feel the weight of its pendant on my sternum as the train bumps its way to a halt a few stations before mine. I smile to myself because I can feel exactly what Laidslaw is saying here like it was just yesterday, and I hastily swallow the rest of my emotions lest they bubble over in a carriage full of people. Such is the risk I accepted by reading on the train, sometimes Eliot's words kick me right in the guts.

After greeting Johanna we go out together for coffee just down the street from the Donmar Warehouse, chatting on the way to the theatre for another day of auditions.   
“What did you think yesterday?” she asks with a grin.   
I know why she's suddenly involving me a lot more with the stage side of production rather than the administration – she thinks I'll want to go back to it.   
“There were some very talented actors,” I say, keeping my voice measured. “No one stood out for Petruchio, though. I'd have thought he'd be easier to cast.”  
“The ones you expect to be easy are always the hardest.” She sips her coffee thoughtfully.   
_Don't say it, Jo._  
“We need a Tom Hiddleston in the mix. Do you know any?” She asks good-naturedly.  
“Stop. I'm not interested.”  
“Such a waste,” she sighs. “All right. Let's see if we can find someone better.”

My god we have some amazing talent in this country. By the end of the second day I'm blown away, there are a few I've heard about through my contacts at RADA, some I invited to audition myself, but some have just come completely out of the blue without formal training and I can't believe how effortless they appear. It almost confirms my decision – it took me years of blood, sweat, and a lot of tears to act like that, and it was never without effort.

“Aiden,” I say to Johanna over our afternoon tea.   
“You want to cast an unknown in a lead role? He dropped out of RADA in first year!”  
“Because he had to support his family. He has good instincts, I think he can handle it.”  
“He'll need a lot of coaching, are you putting your hand up?”  
I think for a few moments. “Yes. Every unknown needs someone to take a chance.”  
“You can give him the good news, then.”

Alone in my apartment that night I finish _Middlemarch_ and it takes me some time to collect my thoughts. Eliot was a remarkable and fascinating woman; brave and outspoken ahead of her time. She had a lot to say about the treatment and expectations of women and didn't hesitate to tell it how it was, and yet to be taken seriously she had to do so under a man's name. I make a few notes while the kettle boils – I'm sure to anyone else it would seem silly but I realised quite early on in life that holding on to an important thought isn't one of my strong points, if I don't record it in some way it's swept away like dandelion seeds in the breeze. People often ask me how I recall important quotes or ideas, how I can possibly keep that much information in my head all the time, but the truth is I just keep a lot of notes and read back over them frequently. Writing them down makes them stick.

While my tea brews I slip _Middlemarch_ back onto the shelf – between Chekhov and Emerson's complete works – and move back to the corner where I keep the ones I want to read next. I finger the spine of each in turn, looking for something perhaps a little lighter this time around. There's no system of priority, I just choose what I feel like at the time unless there's a particular purpose to one or another. The one that catches my eye this evening was given to me by Johanna and isn't one I'd normally pick up but it comes highly recommended – _Commander of the Fallen –_ a sci-fi thriller by Rohan Moss, an author I've never heard of. I flip it over in my hands a few times, reading the blurb on the back for the fifth time and looking for the usual author bio inside the cover – but it's not there.

With a yawn I take my tea to the bedroom and slip out of my clothes into a hot shower before getting beneath the covers. The script we're working from is by the bed with my notes on it, in a rainbow of highlighters that brings back as many memories as the candle on the bedside and the leather cord and pendant around my neck. It's still warm against my skin from the shower and I feel the sleek metal with my fingers while I read and sip my tea. God, I miss her. My gaze automatically goes to the closet where I know the box she left me resides, and my chest constricts enough that the breath catches in my throat. I need to go see her soon, and I haven't seen Steph in months so I should arrange that, too. I remember when everything was about what I wanted, having a goal and going after it with everything I had, and now I spend 90% of my time on shoulds, keeping the people I care about off my back.

That isn't to say I don't love my job – working on productions with Johanna for the Donmar is a dream come true even if it did come a little earlier than I'd have liked. Johanna was my life line, giving me a job when I needed to dig myself out of a hole, and knowing me well enough that a shovel would only see me dig in deeper. I'm in the industry I always aimed for, with a permanent well-paying job in theatre and a house I own – all of which I feel incredibly grateful to have secured by my mid-30s – but I find myself at a loose end so often recently. I'm challenged in my work, I still have ambition and goals to work toward, but I sit in bed at night reading a book or script or catching up on the news and wonder if there isn't more life to be lived. Perhaps what I'm missing from my earlier career isn't the films or the acting but the travel, maybe I should look into all the places I've wanted to see and just go.

I feel its much more likely that this void I feel is permanent, as is the case for anyone who loses the love of their life. A friend of mine recently separated from his wife and tried to insinuate that he knows how I feel and it took all of my willpower not to knock him out for even suggesting our pain resides on the same spectrum. Certainly heartbreak is awful, the dissolution of a marriage is a loss to be grieved, but for those who believe as I do in soulmates there is the eternal hope that your true love is still out there somewhere, the excitement and anticipation only afforded to those who haven't me the love of their life yet. But when you have had that love, known your soul mate and the completion they bring to every fibre of your being, and then watched them die... there's no possibility of reconciliation or knowing you still have your chance. If we are each afforded one other person on this earth who makes us whole, then I am to be missing a piece of myself for the rest of my days. The piece of me that she took with her to the grave when she died in my arms, the piece I gave willingly and without hesitation and wouldn't accept back even if it were offered to me.

Mum and Emma both think I should be dating again by now, putting myself out there and being available for companionship. They see that I'm back on my feet and mostly happy again, content with every other aspect of my life and no longer spending hours on end in the cemetery. On more than one occasion they've tried to set me up with women, and I've played along and even enjoyed a polite dinner with one of their work colleagues or a family friend, but nothing further ever comes of it. I cannot fathom dating another woman when not a day passes I don't miss Cora, don't wish she were here to share something with or daydream about what I could and should have done differently if only I'd known in the beginning that she was so sick. It just wouldn't be fair to begin a relationship on that sort of foundation, with the knowledge that it won't last because I already had my chance with my soulmate and the hours I spend every week still mourning the loss of another woman. Sarah at least seems to understand it, I often found it easier to text or email her than physically speak with anyone else and she guided me through the worst of the grief from the other side of the world. I know she's called out the meddling of the other two a couple of times and told them to give up on it, but they think it will benefit me and their hearts are in the right place.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The following day is a beautiful late winter morning and the bitter chill seems a fraction less hostile as I wait patiently to board my train for the journey to work. There is a woman I sit across from every morning and have done so for so long it's as though she's been there since I started working in central London, although I believe she started travelling with me a little while after. She's always scribbling away in a notebook of some description, always looking around at the other passengers or out the window deep in thought while the rest of us have our noses buried in books and electronic devices. Often the hint of fire that licks at her curly chestnut hair has caught my eye when the sun catches it through the window and on a few occasions I've looked up to find those stunning green eyes watching me across the carriage before she flicks them away. And then there's her shoes. _All stars_ sneakers, a different pair every day. I don't know how many pairs she owns but I swear I'm yet to see them repeat. I wonder where she works to wear that sort of outfit every day – usually there's an equally colourful and fascinating sweater or t-shirt beneath her coat, paired with either jeans or some other form of denim. In contrast to the rest of the carriage wearing the same suit and business shirt day after day it makes a pleasant and uplifting change.

Today her coat is tugged so tight around her I can't tell what hides beneath, but her shoes don't in any way let me down – they're high tops that appear to have been dipped in a rainbow. Like everyone else she has earbuds in but she's one of just a few that actually look up as we make our way onto the carriage, examining each person as though gathering their life story from the few seconds she scans them. To my surprise this morning when our eyes meet she's smiling and I find myself nodding in her direction and smiling in return. It's funny how you hear that after any sort of attack on our city people seem to rally together and start talking to each other on trains and all that business – let me tell you it rarely lasts the week. Mostly by the following Monday it's once again every man for himself. I won't say I find it sad, mostly I just find the reports grossly exaggerated, but I suppose it doesn't do a lot for community spirit.

Either way I feel like I've done my part this morning and exchanged a smile with another regular commuter which should satisfy both the city and my therapist, should I ever need to see her again. She was all about putting myself back in the world and talking to people rather than continuing my petty attempts to hide. I don't even pull out my book today, instead I allow the music from my earphones to be the soundtrack to the passing fog-covered city outside the window.

As soon as my feet hit the platform I'm off as quickly as I can manage in a sea of people, heading to our regular cafe to meet with Aiden.  
“Hey, man. How's it going?” I offer my hand and he shakes it firmly before we both sit down.   
“Good, thanks. I wasn't expecting a call from you this soon.”  
“Well, I'm offering you the part of Petruchio. Congratulations, we were thoroughly impressed with your audition.”  
“Really? Wow, that's fantastic. Thank you. I'm so inexperienced I wasn't expecting a main role like this.”  
“I'll be helping you along the way, give you some extra coaching if you need it. I think you've got what it takes, though. I really do.”  
“That's high praise from someone I admire as much as you. I was lucky enough to see Coriolanus a couple of times, I'm a big fan of your work.”  
“Thanks,” I say, nodding to hide the heat in my cheeks.   
“So is it true they're making a new Thor film?”  
A shudder runs up my spine. “I... I'm not sure to be honest. I haven't heard.”  
“Can't be true if you don't know anything about it, you'd have to be in it.” He laughs and I force myself to join in. I'm not lying, but even if I did know I wouldn't be a part of it. They'll either re-cast Loki or write him out altogether, I suppose.  
“Ok. There's a meeting in a couple of weeks once we've finalised the cast and dates and we'll go from there. In the meantime start learning your lines, I have some notes I can email to you if you like.”  
“That would be amazing, thank you.”  
“If you need help please ask, and I say that as much to save my own arse as a favour to you. I understand you had good reason to leave RADA but that makes you the least experienced of the cast with one of the most important roles. I'm more than happy to do some individual coaching with you, but you have to tell me.”  
“Absolutely, I really appreciate the opportunity. You won't be disappointed.”   
There's no point denying I see a bit of myself in him, being given an opportunity even though he's relatively unknown. Mostly though I just feel he's perfect for the role provided he works hard from now until the show is over, let's hope he has the stamina to back it up.

As soon as we step out onto the street I can feel a sort of tension in the air, like a hundred people around me have drawn breath at the same time. And then it happens, I initially believe it to be gunfire in the distance, but the pavement rumbles and vibrates quite violently beneath my feet. Aiden and I have talked through two mugs of coffee about a vast array of things to do with theatre and the way the Donmar runs, I'd only just been surprised at the time on my watch – just after twelve.   
“What was that?” he asks, visibly shaken.  
I shake my head, my thoughts racing too fast to form words. We might be under attack, there might have been a bomb, or I might have just started reading a sci fi thriller and my imagination is in overdrive.   
“We should... ah... how far away are you?”  
“About ten on the tube.”  
“Come with me, I think it's safer to just go to our office until we know what's happening.”   
As we cross the street to enter our building I can already see a narrow column of smoke rising from somewhere in the city but I can't judge the distance. All I can be certain of at this point is that it's not good.

“Thank god,” Jo says when I open the door, locking it behind me. “I was about to come looking for you.”  
“What's happened?”  
“Some sort of explosion a few blocks away, street level in a chip shop or something.”  
Long after Aiden has gone home in a cab Jo and I are glued to the news and updates on Twitter as the horror of another attack of our city unfolds.

 


	3. Cider with Rosie

## Olivia

“It’s your turn to get lunch,” I say to Jonah without looking up from my screen.  
He grumbles a bit to himself, thinking I can’t hear him. “The usual?” he asks from the doorway.  
“Just cheese and beetroot today.”  
I can still hear his faked gagging when he closes the front door. Even as an adult Jonah avoids social situations and people in general and part of his ongoing therapy is encouraging him to go out and interact with strangers, so twice a week he goes to the deli on the corner to get lunch for both of us. It doesn’t get easier for him, he whines about it every time but he does it anyway. I wish he had more friends because he’s loyal to the core and once he’s comfortable with someone like he is with me he’s so kind and loving, but it’s taken most of our lives to get to this point. To add to the awkwardness Jonah is gay and has never had a relationship and every now and again he breaks down out of sheer loneliness, confesses to me how absolutely miserable he is and wishes he was worthy of having friends and lovers like everyone else. I love him to my absolute core, and to know he feels that way breaks my heart, so I do what I can to help him manage and practice the things that don’t come naturally to him – I share his office so he doesn’t stay holed up on his own every hour of the day, we go out together whenever he’s up for it, and I push him to complete the challenges and tasks set by his therapists.

I’m so engrossed in writing a scene between my protagonist and his butcher that the first crack of the blast makes me jump and knock over the glass of water on my desk, the accompanying rumble the first thing to actually register in my brain as I’m righting the glass. Oddly my first thought is an earthquake – I don’t think I’ve ever experienced an earthquake so it’s highly unlikely, but that’s where my mind goes – I spend a couple of seconds rooted to the spot waiting for further signs before I go to the window and see a wisp of grey smoke floating up from the street below. Otherwise I can’t see anything out of the ordinary but I figure Jonah might panic so I pick up my phone and purse and head for the elevator.   
 _In case of fire do not use elevators.  
_ That simple sign I’ve seen a million times in my life has suddenly stopped me in my tracks and for all the brain power I possess – enough to get me through a prestige London school, university with honours, gain a sought-after position with the British Library, and write a successful novel – none of my academic learning has prepared me for this. Why did no one ever teach me to deal with crisis rather than read a sign over and over and be unable to decipher its meaning the one time I really need it?

I take the stairs. I’m reasonably sure the smoke I saw wasn’t coming from our building but I still have no idea what the commotion actually was so better to be safe than sorry. Also I’m more likely to bump in to Jonah on the stairs because he’s unlikely to use the elevator if there’s any sign of smoke within a ten block radius. As soon as I open the heavy door to the stairwell I hear it: panic. The scurrying of feet, the clatter of heels traversing on concrete faster than they’re used to, whispered assumptions and people on phones contacting loved ones, and like a descant melody over a military hymn the words no one actually wants to hear in any form. Terrorist. Bomb. Attack.

The usually civilised street chatters with people rushing mostly in the same direction – away from the source. Almost all of them carry a phone either up to their ear on in their hand while their thumbs and fingers dance out frenzied texts, statuses, tweets, or emails. For a brief moment the people-watcher in me takes over and I stop dead in the middle like a stuck tree stump in a torrent of raging floodwater, wondering what they’re writing and to whom, how many have wild stories and how many are pure cold facts, how many actually know what happened rather than just sending out whatever vibe they’re picking up from the sea of anxiety around them as they’re swept along. Eventually I’m dislodged but I quickly move to the other side of the pavement to travel in the less popular direction toward the source of the havoc where I know Jonah would have been, following the running policemen and sirens of emergency vehicles screaming down narrow streets and lanes.

The acrid burn fills my nostrils now, as though I’ve struck a match too close to my face and inhaled the sulphur, and the people are thinning out. Those who are in a hurry to leave now are spattered with walking wounded, some of whom I’m sure should be seeking emergency medical attention rather than head back to their office, but they’re too dazed to notice their injuries. Many are burned with their clothing torn and patches missing completely, some limping or nursing a contorted limb. Our little London block has turned into a war zone.

I quickly become disoriented with the smoke and the throng of people and somehow end up outside in clear air and wondering how I missed the scene itself, so I’m heading back toward the source of the chaos when I’m stopped by a police officer.   
“Ma'am, you need to turn around and head back that way.”  
“No, I… my office is this way, I think. I heard the explosion and came looking for my friend, he’ll be out of sorts with all the people and noise.”  
“Ma'am, you need to turn around and go back.”  
“You don’t understand, I must have passed the scene, I need to find Jonah. He’s autistic and may be non-verbal in a situation like this, I need to find him.”  
“You can wait here if you like but I can’t let you back inside the perimeter until we’ve cleared the area.”  
“Cleared it? Where are you going to send the people?”  
“Hospital if they’re injured. We need to check for more devices.”  
“I…” I shake my head and rub the back of my neck in an attempt to jump-start my brain, which is entirely failing me in persuasive conversation. “Officer, please. I’ll go straight through and back to my building. He would have been at the sandwich shop on the next corner, he’s probably still there. I just need to get him and we’ll be on our way.”  
“The deli a block from here?”  
“Yes.”  
“That’s where the explosion was, ma'am.”

With shaking hands I drop my phone while trying to unlock it and the lovely police officer catches me as I fall onto my knees. “I wouldn’t bother with that, love. Cell towers are completely jammed.”  
“I have to find him. He’ll be so scared.”  
“I ought to be fuckin’ fired for this,” he mutters under his breath. “You leave as soon as you’ve got him, right? And if you don’t find him, get out. We’ve a job to do here.” He shoves his notepad and pen into my hands. “Write down his details and yours, at least if he turns up we’ll know he has trouble communicating and we can contact you.”  
“Thank you,” I gasp.   
“Anyone asks, you snuck past when I weren’t looking, right?”  
“Absolutely. Thank you so much, officer.”  
I’m stopped by at least another ten officers asking if I need medical assistance before I make it to the deli, and I immediately wish I’d just waited outside the exclusion zone as he suggested. The carnage is like something from a horror film, far worse than anything I could have imagined. I scan the faces of those sitting in the gutter on the other side of the street waiting for ambulances to take them away, but none are the frightened but kind familiar one I’m looking for. I’m told the worst injured have already been transported to various hospitals, that I should remain calm and go home to wait for news. How can I even think about going home after this, knowing wherever Jonah is he’s petrified? His family are in Spain, they moved there not long after he got his own apartment and business but Jonah insisted on staying put and assured them that he had me to take care of him. I’m not sure I’m up to that task right now.

I head back up to the office – in the elevator this time – and start making phone calls to hospitals. It’s a pointless task really, most of the patients haven’t been put into the system yet and after being told by the first two to wait by the phone for news I realise I am completely helpless. Switching everything off I decide to try a different tactic and pull on my coat, heading out onto the street toward the nearest emergency hospital when my phone rings.  
“Hello, miss Simpson? This is Kayla calling from the Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, Jonah is here and he’s asked me to give you a call.”  
“Thank god.” I stop and clamp a hand over my mouth as the tears that have until now been held back by blind panic start to flow down my cheeks. “Is he ok?”  
“He has some injuries but he’s in good spirits, if you’re able to get here I think he’d feel much better.”  
“I’m on my way.”

The cab ride seems to take forever, like there’s some sort of mass exodus of traffic from the city at lunchtime on a weekday. I suppose perhaps there is. It’s only made longer by the cab driver’s yammering about the state of the world, how we should be dealing with this sort of thing. As far as I can tell from reading the news on my phone we don’t actually know what ‘this sort of thing’ is, but opinions are like arseholes so I guess he’s entitled to his.

Finally we arrive and the foyer is chaos but in true British style its a quiet, unassuming, well-mannered kind of chaos where hoardes of people are just waiting in impatient, panicked silence. I’m relieved I at least know that Jonah is coherent and in one piece, and eventually I’m allowed in to see him in a curtained cubicle of the emergency department.  
“Oh god, are you ok? I was so worried when I couldn’t find you.” Fresh tears splash onto my cheeks as I hug him and his arms wrap so tight around me it’s almost painful.  
“Liv, I can’t stay here. I want to go home.”  
“I know, sweet. I’ll sort it out, ok?”  
“He has a couple of fractured ribs,” the doctor says. “Otherwise just cuts and bruises.”  
“So I can take him home?”  
“Yes, if you can stay with him tonight. He should be under observation for twenty-four hours but honestly I think the stress of remaining her would be worse on him and we need the bed. I’ll write you up some instructions and you’ll need to stay close by to do obs for us when we call.”  
“I will.”

Jonah’s apartment is the epitome of 'neat as a pin’ – tiny and spotless. The hospital have sent home some strong painkillers so I get him as comfy as possible in bed and read on the couch while he naps for the afternoon. Investigating his kitchen I find ingredients for the only thing I know how to make exactly to his liking – cheese pizza. When he still lived with his parents he had therapy specifically for his eating habits and trying new foods so he had a more varied diet but since moving in on his own his exclusively white diet doesn’t affect anyone else so he’s given it free reign. To his credit he eats quite a bit of variety within those parameters and probably has a more balanced intake than half of the country. Apparently it is to his liking although he doesn’t really have an appetite so after his strict evening routine of shower, brushing his teeth, etc. he’s in bed and out like a light while I try to get comfy on the couch.

One night turns into two and then three before I realise there’s a problem developing and I need to act fast. He allows me to leave for short periods – thank goodness, because I only had one set of clothes and had to go buy more – but leaving the apartment himself is out of the question. On the fourth day I finally convince him to call his psychologist and she visits that afternoon so we can formulate a plan for life to return to normal.

And so begins four weeks of tiny steps forward, broken down into minutes and seconds and literal baby steps. Having dealt with Jonah since we were children I know almost as well as his family when to push him and when to pull back, how to stop a complete meltdown in the early stages and when to let him call it a day. His anxiety peaks when he’s outside the familiar surroundings of his apartment and office, in fact moving into an office for his business was a process that took six months and involved finding one within three blocks of his apartment because that’s the limit of his tolerance of the outside when there’s traffic and crowds of people. Over the final weekend we’ve had a dry run where I went home for some supplies but returned to stay the night with him, he’s still having regular nightmares and waking confused and disoriented and although he’s walked the distance between home and work four or five times solo now I’ve always been close by. I know he’s terrified, he wants to ask me to stay just one more night even though what he wants is for me to stay indefinitely. He loves his independence though, he’s so proud and he’s worked so hard for it that a little pre-prepared tough love is what I have to do, even if it breaks my heart, too.

“You’ll be ok, sweet,” I say on Monday night after staying for dinner. “You’re going to go to bed and I’ll see you nice and early in the morning. You can call if you need me. Ok?”  
He nods and forces a smile, looking up at me almost convincingly although I know he’s actually looking over my shoulder.   
“Thank you, Liv. I couldn’t have done it without you.”  
“Yeah you would have, you’re too stubborn not to.”  
“Love you,” he says, hugging me ridiculously tight.  
“Love you too.”

## *~*~*~*~*~*~*

There’s an unexpected side effect to my nights on Jonah’s couch, being woken in the middle of the night and having someone to talk to around the clock – my own flat is suddenly far too quiet. I like my space and enjoy my own company but for the first time in recent memory I have to turn on the television to create some background noise. Clearly I need to get a cat or something.

The television is still chattering away in the bedroom when the phone wakes me just after 11 that night.  
“I can’t sleep, Liv. I can’t go to work tomorrow, I need more time,” Jonah sobs before I can answer.  
“Take some deep breaths, Jonah. You’re safe in your flat and everything is fine, I’ll pick you up in the morning and we’ll go together. You have clients waiting and you’re ready, we’ve worked up to this.”  
“I smiled at him, Liv,” he whispers with the voice of a small child. “He looked right at me and I smiled.”  
“Who?”  
“The man with the bomb. I was outside the shop rehearsing what I would say and he crossed the street to go in, looking right at me. And I smiled. He was staring at me when it happened, I was about to go inside.”  
My blood runs cold and I wish I was still there with him, I just want to hold him and weep. I knew he got a good look, I was there when he spoke to the police, but he left this part out.  
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”  
“What the fuck kind of person smiles at a bomber!” The child has been replaced by an angry, frustrated man now.  
“Sweetheart, you didn’t know. How could you? I’m so sorry.”  
“My ribs hurt.”  
“Have some painkillers and turn the light off, ok?”  
“I can’t have them for another three minutes. No more than three doses, that’s every eight hours.”  
“Honey, that’s not…” I think better of it. Arguing won’t get me anywhere. “All right.”  
We count down the three minutes together and then he hangs up, presumably falling back to a nice opiate-induced sleep while I lie wide awake for another few hours.


	4. Dombey and Son

## Tom

“Tom?” Jo says, snapping her fingers in front of my face.  
I refocus my eyes, startling out of my thoughts. “Sorry.”  
“What’s going on with you? Are you not sleeping?”  
“I apologise, I have been distracted. How about I go and get us some coffee, the caffeine will fix me right up.”  
As I cross the street to the cafe a breeze sweeps down between the buildings, carrying with it a subtle warmth and enough scent of flowers to make me sneeze. Finally, the days are beginning to actually feel like spring rather than the tail end of winter, the sun’s arc reaching higher each day and the nights losing the cutting chill of a few weeks ago. It is exactly the kind of day Cora and I last spent together, when she discharged from the hospital and insisted I take her on a picnic on the way home. She marveled at the sky and the feel of the grass on her skin, the sound of birds and the warmth of the sun, like a small child experiencing them for the first time. I try to enjoy this time of year, to remember that it used to be one of my favourites, but it is always tempered by the looming anniversary of losing her. I rub at my scratchy eyes and put on my sunglasses to wait outside in the hope it might wake me up a bit.

Today Cora isn’t the only thing on my mind but the past few days something else has had me trawling the internet and feeling far too much like a stalker for my liking. The woman I’ve sat opposite on the train every day for over a year has been missing since the bombing, and although I tried not to fear the worst initially it’s been almost a month and I find myself uneasy not knowing what happened to her. Pictures of those who were killed have been posted everywhere and I’m certain none of them are her, but there were people injured who haven’t yet been identified publicly and I wonder if she might be one of them. I am entirely ashamed to admit searching the names that have been publicised on social media in an attempt to find some similarities with her but all I really have to go on is her hair, her infinite collection of loud sneakers, and the only t-shirt I can reliably identify is the _Babe with the Power_ one she wore the day after David Bowie passed. My gaze lingered a little too long that day and although she didn’t appear to notice the woman beside her certainly did and was shooting daggers at me across the carriage. It’s been weighing on my mind for a month now and I don’t know how to find out what happened to her, I don’t know where else to look. I should have spoken to her, found out more about her. There has been, as was expected, an increase in strangers talking on the train since then, although not as much as when the attacks were on our transport system. More than once in the last few weeks I’ve considered this might be a sign that I need to start talking to people again, let my extrovert out of his box for a bit. Or maybe it’s part of the out of kilter feeling I have in general.

“Honestly, the people you run into in this city,” a familiar voice says over my shoulder.   
I try to cover my startled jump with a cough as he moves around to hug me. “Luke, how are you?”  
“I’m good, just meeting Aiden here before our meeting with the Donmar.”  
Ah, of course. Aiden was asking me recently about PR, he obviously went with Prosper as well. “Glad to hear he took my advice.”  
“I’ve been meaning to call you, actually. Just to catch up, see how you’re doing. We’ll have to have a drink or something soon.”  
“Great, yeah. I’d best get this back to Johanna,” I say as two coffees are delivered to my hands. “Good to see you.”  
It took about six months for Luke to forgive me, not so much for pulling out of all of my commitments after Coriolanus but for not discussing it with him first. He was, and is, a close friend and confidant but it wasn't a decision I talked over with anyone, I just did what I had to do. If I had brought it up he'd have tried to talk me out of it and I didn't have the energy to argue with anyone at that point, I just wanted to spend Cora's last days by her side.

When I walk back in to Jo’s office she’s standing and gazing out the window, she doesn’t even turn around when I enter.  
“Now who’s distracted?” I ask with a chuckle.  
She rounds on me and pulls me against her in a tight hug, patting my back gently. “Tom, I’m so sorry. I should have realised why you were out of sorts.”  
“I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”  
“But I should. How are you doing? If you need some time off – ”  
“Thank you, Jo. What I need is to keep busy. I’m meeting Stephanie at the cemetery this afternoon and we’ll lay some flowers and then go out for dinner.”  
Cora’s pendant weighs cool and heavy against my chest and I find I’m holding it between my fingers before I can stop myself.

By the time I’m walking through the gates the breeze has turned cool, but the flowery scent here is thick and comforting. When I reach Cora’s grave I find Stephanie already there, pulling the odd wilted flower from the plants in front of the headstone. Her auburn hair is worn long with curls at the end just like Cora’s used to be, I wonder if it was a conscious decision to grow it from her former short bob to match her memory of her sister. She stands to greet me and I’m surprised to find she’s alone, missing her husband Kyle.  
“I kind of wanted it to be just you and me, I felt a bit awkward last time that you were on your own.”  
“You don’t need to, Steph. Honestly. How’ve you been? I’m sorry I haven’t called.”  
“Well, um... pregnant. I’ve been pregnant. Still am.” She laughs and rubs a hand on her belly, and now she’s turned sideways I can see a definite swelling.  
“Congratulations, that’s fantastic.”  
“Thanks. It’s still kind of early, I’m not half way yet. What have you been up to?”  
“Working on a new play. There’s been talk of an assistant director position coming up, so I’m working hard.” I pull a small ceramic pig with wings and aviator sunglasses on from my pocket, crouching to place it carefully on the concrete ledge in front of the stone. “I couldn’t resist him.”  
Stephanie laughs. “She’d bloody love that, her and her flying pigs.”  
Neither of us can even recall the origin although I’m sure at some point Cora must have told me, but when she was a teenager someone told her ‘and pigs might fly’ in response to some outlandish dream or ambition she’d announced. From that day Cora's bedroom and later her apartment were adorned with every flying pig she could get her hands on.

Looking around at the new growth on the trees and the blooming flowers lining each path I’m hit with a wrecking ball of guilt in the stomach, it’s been too long since my last visit.   
_I’m so sorry, Cora,_ I tell her in my head. _I haven’t forgotten, I could never not think of you, I’ve just been working really hard to show Johanna I can do this job._  
“I miss you.” I don’t realise I’ve whispered the words aloud until Steph is threading her arms around me. When I’m here alone I talk to her all the time but with someone else here I feel it’s not my place, it must be so much worse for Stephanie to lose the only family she was close to. And now she’s having her own but they’ll never meet their beautiful aunt.

When my legs decide to sit on the cool, slightly damp grass there’s no grace to it, they just sort of fold up and give me no choice. Steph sits beside me and I wrap what I hope is a comforting arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to my chest while trying to keep my emotions in check.  
“I can’t believe it’s been two years,” she says quietly.   
All I can do is nod, because I can believe it. The pain is both as raw as a fresh wound and as dull as an old festering scar that just surprises you with a stab every now and again when you’re least expecting it. I don’t feel the time has gone particularly fast or slow, it has just passed steadily like the sand falling through an hourglass – you can shake it all you like but there’s no way to change the pace.

With our tears dried we leave arm in arm and move on to a cafe near Steph and Cora’s former apartment building.   
“I couldn’t bear someone else living there,” Steph says of the apartment Cora rented next door to hers. “We just kept paying the rent on it until a few months ago when we talked about starting a family. Kyle has been amazing, he never pushed me or said anything about the money we were paying for her flat to just sit there untouched. One day I just knew it was time and we found a new place a couple of blocks away.”  
I know how she felt about someone else sleeping in Cora’s bedroom, cooking in her kitchen, collapsing on the couch after a long day. I’m feeling it now.   
“I should have told you, I didn’t think.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand.  
“It’s ok, I didn’t really think about it before.” I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders. “How did you know, that it was time to move?”  
“Are you asking about moving physically or moving forward?”  
“Both.”  
“I don’t know, it just... maybe thoughts of starting a family with Kyle became more prominent than thoughts of keeping her flat empty. When we did it my heart felt lighter, not heavier. I guess I didn’t really know for sure until then, after it was done. Sometimes you’ve just got to feel the fear, give it a hug, and do it anyway.”  
My head snaps up from looking at the menu. “I think I’ve heard that before.”  
“You know she wouldn’t want you to be alone the rest of your life, right? She loved you with all she had, Tom. She wanted you to be happy, that’s why she pushed you away.”  
“I just can’t imagine being with anyone else. Ever.”  
“That’s ok, just don’t rule it out. One day you might be able to imagine it and that will be a good thing, not something to fight or run from. Ok?”  
“You sound just like her,” I say with a laugh. “We’ll see what happens.”  
I walk her home after dinner and leave her with a long, tight hug, promising that we won’t go so long without speaking from now on.

To clear my head I walk beyond the closest two stations, the night air burning my lungs by the time I reach the third and wait for the next train. At home I pull a non-descript archive box from the top shelf in my closet and place it carefully in the middle of the bed, sitting down beside it and drawing a deep breath before I ease the lid off. Already I can smell the mixture of scented oil and perfume and it swirls around me as it is released from the box for the first time in months. I wait for the guilt to hit me as it did last time, as it does sometimes when I let my mind wander away from her... but it doesn’t. Rather than bring me back to the sadness of her passing and the ache in my chest when she died I feel comforted and supported by the scent of her, uplifted by the pendant as it beats against my sternum.

Tears fall from my eyes and I shake my head. This isn’t right. Today is about mourning and remembering, wailing like a lost child until I can’t breathe. It is a day for shutting myself off from the world and feeling all that I missed out on when she didn’t tell me she was sick; all that I gave up to spend the final year by her side; all that I lost when she took her last breath. I pull out the hoodie she wore when she kissed me so deeply and full of hope – the day that I swore I was going to marry her and be with her the rest of our lives – holding it to my chest as I move to the hall where the pictures of us together are surrounded by my most prized family photographs. We took lots of pictures that day and the rest are safely backed up in ten different locations, but the one I framed is my favourite; we were laying together in her hospital bed taking selfies for amusement and she’s in my arms with our fingers laced together, looking straight into the lens while I kiss her cheek and take the picture. The one beside it is from rehearsals for Cymbeline and she’s leaning on me on a couch with earphones in her ears, poking her tongue out at the camera and giving the peace sign to the photographer with her arm around my neck. I wasn’t sent the picture because of how she looks, though, it was sent to me because of the way I’m looking down at her with a tender smile like she’s my entire world. We had no idea how sick she was then, everyone assumed she was just run-down with a cold, and it took another few years for me to admit I was in love with her.  
 _“You should have told me you were sick,” I’d tell her later._  
“You should have told me you loved me,” she’d quip back. “All the time we wasted. Imagine how easy it could have been.”  
There’s the devastation I’ve been waiting for. It’s never far below the surface when I remember all the time I was away and thinking I had all the time in the world to tell her how I felt, I just had to get my career going first. My greatest fear came to pass – I wasted precious time.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jo tried to insist I take the morning off because she is attending the memorial for the bombing victims, but really I think she expected me to be a bit of a mess and need some time alone. She’s wrong, of course, what I really need is to keep out of my own head, so instead I catch the later train and head straight toward the site of the bombing and look for her. She’s with one of our costume designers whose partner was a barista at the deli and died from his injuries and as I make my way through the crowd a streak of fiery red is illuminated by the sun and I stop so fast the poor woman behind me runs right in to my back.  
“I’m terribly sorry,” she says when I turn around.  
“Not at all, it was my fault,” I say with a tight smile.   
I’m sure it was her. The one from the train. But when I turn back she’s gone.

 


	5. Evening in Byzantium

## Olivia

When I tell people about Jonah they automatically assume he ‘looks’ autistic – usually along the lines of Dustin Hoffman in _Rain Man_ – or at least kind of awkward. They expect him to be unattractive and outwardly different, and unless you’re looking for it he really isn’t. I’ll never forget when I was working at the British Library and took him in on my day off, my coworkers were all whispering thinking I had a gorgeous new man and refused to believe it was Jonah. There’s no denying it, he’s a damn good looking man with his dark hair and big brown eyes, just shy of 6ft height, and lean body. He works out with a trainer because the activity is good for managing his muscle tone and tendency to hyperfocus, and a while ago he had a stylist pick out his clothes to his sensory needs so he gets plenty of second looks on the street. This has its own problems, because firstly he doesn’t notice and lacks confidence even though he’s brilliant at faking it; secondly it’s mostly women checking him out and he doesn’t see that as a compliment because he isn’t interested in women; and thirdly people who try to talk with him or flirt are quickly put off by his somewhat unusual personality. He has a tendency to say the wrong thing and make it awkward and if the guy talking to him is someone he finds attractive then conversation is beyond him, he just shuts down. I hate that I feel bad for him, but I do. I wish I could set him up with someone who sees beyond all of that, who will take the time to get to know him and let him get comfortable enough to talk. Sadly the only person I know who would do that is my brother, Caleb, and he comes with so much of his own baggage that they’d need a whole apartment block to store it.

He has his arm wrapped tight around my shoulders while mine rests on the middle of his back and I occasionally reach up and squeeze his hand and make sure he’s doing okay. I knew the memorial would be difficult for him but we discussed it together with his psychologist and agreed it was important in the recovery process, which for him is far more about emotional healing than physical. His ribs might still be giving him pain but it’s nothing on the anxiety attacks and changing his routines. Throughout the service he keeps his face serious but expressionless, his eyes down and brow slightly furrowed. No one but me would know it’s a face he’s practiced in the mirror to fit with social expectations.

As the names of those killed are read out I’m taken back to the panic I felt when I couldn’t find him and he must feel me tremble because he wraps both arms around me with a stifled hiss of pain. I can’t stop the tears from falling onto my cheeks, then. I’ve tried so hard to blink them back but when I think of the horror inside the shop and how much worse things could have been, how haunted he will be by that man staring at him and them blowing himself to pieces, the lump in my throat just sort of bursts upward and out my eyes.

When all is done and the crowd begins to disperse I hold Jonah’s hand tight in mine, knowing how the thousands of people milling around will make him unbearably agitated – we need to get away and back to our office as quickly as possible. And then, in front of us going completely against the rest of the crowd, is the man from the train I haven’t ridden in a month, staring right at me. I return his smile as we move toward him, wondering just how terrible my face looks with mascara probably running everywhere, and possibly a snot situation.  
“Hello,” he nods. “I, uh... we used to catch the same train?”  
I smile and nod in recognition, faltering for words.  
“I actually worried... well I thought something might have happened... because you haven’t been on the train since...”  
“Oh! Sorry, no I’m fine. My friend was injured, though, so I’ve been staying with him. I’m Olivia, this is Jonah.”  
“Tom,” he says, extending a hand. “Good to meet you.”  
My jaw drops and I grip his hand far too tightly because I must surely be dreaming. And now he’s looking at me like I might be crazy. I'm just barely swallowing down a laugh and if we don't get out of here soon it will escape and remove all doubt.  
“Livi,” Jonah says quietly. I can hear the shake in his voice, we're completely enclosed by people now and he's bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking around frantically for an escape route.  
“All right, sweet.” I take his hand in mine and pat it gently before turning my attention back to Tom. “Could we perhaps do this another time? It's just that we really need to get going.”  
“Oh, sorry.” He looks like I've just slapped his hand away. “Of course, but...”   
Jonah starts walking and I don't have any choice but to go with him; we're headed for a meltdown of epic proportions if we don't get out of this crowd. I look back and give him an apologetic smile but I'm not sure he sees it between all of the other faces.

Once Jonah's seated on the couch in the office with a herbal tea in his hands I can see he's coming out of it, and then he looks up at me and smiles.   
“So that was the guy from the train?”  
“Yeah... He said his name was Tom, right? I didn't imagine it?” That laugh I've been holding down since starts to bubble over until I'm cackling like some sort of lunatic at the idea that the acronym we gave him is actually his name.   
“He definitely said Tom. Hey, I'm sorry I dragged you away. You probably wanted to talk to him.”  
“It's all good, I see him on the train every day.” I sit down on the couch beside him and pat his leg. “You are my priority today, and I'm so proud of you. You did it.”  
“That was hard,” he says before abruptly standing up. “I have a huge project to start on today.”  
I yawn and rest my head on my hand. “I'm just going to stay here a few more minutes.”

Taking care of him hasn't been without its toll on me and while I'm happy to do it I'm starting to feel the effects on my body. I try not to get frustrated with his parents because I don't have children – much less a child with special needs – so I don't fully understand, but I get the impression they thought he'd be cured once he grew up and moved out. We've been in contact with them every few days, I know they care and they worry about him but it's difficult not to resent their lack of physical presence when he needs someone almost around the clock. On an intellectual level Jonah will understand the impact the bombing has had on me, how worried I was when I couldn't find him and how, like everyone else, I'm scared shitless that it will happen again; but he has no idea the effort it takes to care for him and anticipate his needs each day. Not because he's selfish, he just lacks the empathy to comprehend it.

The next thing I know he's gently shaking me awake and sitting beside me so I can curl into him.   
“Thank you, Olivia,” he says, kissing my forehead and stroking my hair, running his fingers through the smooth lengths as he loves to do. “Thank you for looking after me.”  
“You're welcome, sweet. You know I don't mind.”  
“I know I'm not easy to live with. I'm going to go home on my own today.”  
That's quite a leap forward.  
“You sure?”  
“I'll leave a bit early and call you if I need you. And if I can make it home okay you don't need to pick me up in the morning, just go back to your regular train.”  
“I know what you're doing, Jonah,” I say with a smile. “You don't need to set me up.”  
“I'm not. You have a life and you need to get back to it.”  
And then sometimes he surprises me in the most beautiful ways, even more so the conscious effort it would have taken him to work out how I'm feeling.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I'll admit there are butterflies this morning, and I can't decide which shirt to wear. I love that I can wear anything I want to work, that my slightly overabundant collection of Chuck Taylors get to be worn out and about every day. The shoes were easy, the hot pink ones were at the front and haven't been worn in a couple of weeks, but I'm having trouble with the shirt. Sometimes you feel like being patriotic but at the same time is wearing a union jack t-shirt too much like making light of the subject? Is it too soon? Is the Sex Pistols too forward?

This is exactly why I like being single. I'm not even sure he likes me and I'm second guessing my work attire like I'm going on a date.

Strawberries. I pull out a pale pink top with bright strawberries printed all over it, fruit is always a safe option. It's been so warm I forgo the overcoat and just pull a grey hoodie over my shoulders, leaving my hair in its unruly waves.

When Tom ducks through the doors today his eyes are already up and scanning the carriage and I wonder if he's looking for a seat or me. Maybe I've got this all wrong and he really did just think something awful had happened to me. All that fussing over what shirt to wear and he was probably just being polite because he knows he stands out and in a crowd and I'd recognise him and he didn't want to look like a dick by not saying something –   
“Olivia, right?” he says, sitting down beside me.   
“Good memory, Tom.”  
“Not really, I wrote it down so I wouldn't forget... and now I sound like a stalker.” He blushes and drops his head forward with a genuine laugh that puts me instantly at ease.   
“Not at all.” I hold up the notebook from my lap. “I write everything down, too.”  
“So is your friend all right? The one who was injured?”  
Jonah is a topic of discussion I usually steer clear of, I feel like people are interested to hear about him because of his quirks as opposed to anything else and he starts to sound like a circus freak.   
“Yes, he was outside the shop on the path so just a few broken ribs. He's recovering well and I'm back to my regular schedule.”  
“Were you far from the blast?”  
“No, just around the corner. You?”  
“A few blocks away, close enough to feel and hear it. One of my co-workers lost his partner, he was a barista in the shop.”  
“Oh, Travis? Would you pass on our condolences, we bought lunch there a couple of times a week and knew him reasonably well.” I pause to clear my throat. “Actually, don't. That sounds... cheap or something.”  
“Not at all,” he says quietly.   
“Isn't this warm weather amazing? I love spring,” I say to break the short silence. It's a curse, I talk and ramble when I'm nervous and if there's a break I automatically want to fill it.   
“I do, too. It's my favourite season.” He smiles but this time it doesn't touch his eyes, as though we're discussing a season that no longer exists, he only has happy memories.  
“I am one of those strange people that loves winter, though. The colder the better, getting all rugged up and cuddling beside a fire.”  
 _Good god woman, just shut up!  
_ Tom nods in agreement. “Provided you have a way to keep warm.”

We ride in silence for a while, to be honest small talk is something I'm severely lacking in lately so it's been energising to talk to an uninvested stranger. I'm convinced he isn't actually interested in me so much as he's made a resolution to talk to more people rather than bury his head in a book every day. Which is fine because I can carry on a conversation and observe at the same time, and perhaps if we keep it up I can get answers to all the questions I've written down over the year I've watched him.

The pattern carries on for the rest of the week, he boards the train and sits beside me and we've moved on to my favourite pastime: wondering about people. As it turns out, Tom is quite the avid people-watcher himself, so we amuse ourselves pondering the woman who always sits at the front of the carriage with a banana – not in her over-sized purse, but always in her hand – or the man who carries an umbrella no matter how sunny it might be. We muse that perhaps he had a traumatic experience in the rain and no longer leaves it to chance, that the banana is secretly hiding a camera or is her equivalent of the pet rock. Maybe it's not even a real banana but the plastic display kind, it never seems to go brown or have any sort of mark on it. I'd pose the theory that she's autistic and, like Jonah, can't eat a fruit that is in any way blemished or bruised, so she carries it in her hand to protect it. Someone should tell her about those plastic containers that I bought for Jonah a while back, saving god knows how many pounds of bananas from the bin because they got a little bruised between home and work.

“When are you going to ask him out?” Jonah asks when we both break for lunch on Friday. He's seen a long term reprieve from fetching lunch and mostly we both bring our own, now, or I'll make a double batch of something and bring enough for both of us.   
I blink. “I'm not, I think he just wanted some company on the train, not a girlfriend. He probably has a girlfriend, I don't imagine a man like him would stay single for long.”  
“You haven't asked? Why wouldn't you ask him?”  
“Because I don't need to know his life story, we're both content with small talk.”  
He shakes his head the way he does when he doesn't understand but he knows on an intellectual level that it's not socially acceptable. “Are you interested? If he asked, what would you say?”  
“I don't know... yes, I suppose. He's handsome and intelligent, I've no reason to turn him down.”  
“Then you should ask. Ask him out on a date, you can do the... what's the saying where you do two things at once?”  
“Kill two birds with one stone.”  
He shakes his head again and I know he’s picturing it literally and thinking how stupid it is. “That's the one. You can do that.”  
“Tell you what, you agree to a double date with Caleb and I'll invite Tom.”  
“Olivia, give it up. I'm not dating your brother, it would be weird. Do you want to hear me talk incessantly and unfiltered about sex with your big brother?”  
“Ew! Absolutely not. Guess we're both staying single.”

  
  


 


	6. Fang and Claws

## Tom

People bustle below on the street, the low buzzing of phone conversations and heels on pavement interrupted by the horn of the occasional impatient motorist. The office is stark and boring, decorated in luxury beige leather on soft beige carpet and surrounded by beige walls with barely a colour even in the artworks hung on the inoffensive cream walls. It's all very unobtrusive I suppose, designed to neither arouse nor depress, just to exist as an enclosed space for people like me to air their grief until the clock tells them to put the lid back on it.

“There's a woman I've been talking with, we catch the tube together each morning.”  
“Mm hm. Go on.”  
 _Why do I do this to myself?_  
“Well, you suggested I talk to people, make some new connections. I'm doing it, it's going really well.” She just stares at me until I open my mouth and start talking again, which I hate because I do it far too easily.   
“Her name is Olivia.”  
I go on to tell her about the fluttering I've begun to experience in my chest as the tube approaches the platform, the smile that immediately curls my lips when I see her. It's the same smile that lights up Olivia's face and I've started to wonder if she expects me to ask her out.   
“Do you want to ask her on a date?” Wendy, who is also clad in unassuming grey, asks.   
“No... and yes. I never expected to have this again after Cora. She was the love of my life and I believe that with every fibre of my being, so if I were to date Olivia I can't see that it would go any further than that.”  
“You've told me before you felt like you wasted time with Cora, time that you could have been together and you wished you could have back. Is it possible that you'll feel the same way if you let Olivia get away? No one asks someone out on a date expecting to fall in love and marry them, Tom. It might work out and it might not.”  
“It won't, though.”  
“You can't know that. If those feelings happen then we'll work on them, but I think for now you can't let that hold you back. I feel certain that Cora wouldn't want you to be alone if you had the chance to fall in love again.”

When I started seeing a therapist last year I thought it would be part of the recovery process and getting on with my life. I also thought I'd leave our sessions feeling optimistic and relieved, but instead I feel drained and with more questions on my mind than when I entered.  
“I'm challenging you, Tom,” she said as I was leaving. “Getting under the idea that you only got one chance at love and its gone, and levering it out so you can see the flaws in that thinking. It's going to be uncomfortable but change always is, and you wouldn't be here if you didn't want that change.”

That afternoon I answer the phone call I've been dreading all this time, from Kevin Feige of Marvel Studios. The fact he called me to set up the meeting himself tells me he's not just wanting a friendly catch up while he's in London, he wants to talk business as well.

After Cora passed everyone in my life told me I needed to 'get back on the horse'. There were projects I'd pulled out of suddenly being offered to me again and no matter how many times I turned them down or how many well-meaning loved ones I argued with, no one would listen to what I wanted. I was wounded and raw and numb, even when I came to work with Johanna I doubted my own ability to spot a good actor. As Loki, or Freddie Page, or Captain Nicholls, I felt I'd given a convincing response to trauma and despair but it was within the limitations of what I had experienced in my own life – I had to dig as deep as I could go to trigger the most guttural response I could muster to a catastrophe I'd never had to cope with – but now I feel they were all much too superficial. Watching them back I want to cringe at my own naivety, to take my younger self by the collar and show him what real fear and angst is. And while I've lost all confidence in my acting ability I can also appreciate how such traumatic events can and do make some artists portray such raw emotions even better than before, and the potential is there for me to do the same. Audiences don't really want that, though. Real pain, the kind of tangible trauma that makes your heart physically ache in your chest for a fictional character, might be what people think they want and what directors ask to be laid bare for the camera, but the truth is that they want to leave the theatre or cinema with their heart warmed and their sanity intact, with the closure of a happy ending and a smile on their face.

I no longer feel qualified to claim a realistic performance where the character isn't left irreversibly changed by events and carries on down the path believing his happily ever after will come. Perhaps fairy tales should have been left in their original form – where Sleeping Beauty was assaulted in her sleep and Cinderella's first act after marrying her prince was to behead her stepmother. It would be easy to mistake me as bitter toward the entire world, but I still have an appropriate amount of positivity and optimism – it's the temporary and shallow effect of trauma on our modern fictional heroes that doesn't sit right.

Kevin greets me the following afternoon with a familiar hug before we sit down in my favourite beer garden. When Olivia asked me what I was doing today I didn't tell her about this, nor have I discussed it with Jo, because I just can't see it being anything important. Perhaps I'm in denial, I'm still hoping it's no more than a friendly 'no hard feelings about ducking out of your contract less than half way through' beer and chat.   
“I've been following your productions at the Donmar,” he says after the second beer and obligatory small talk. “You're doing really well there.”  
“Thank you sir,” I reply with a nod. “I'm really enjoying the change of pace.”  
“I wanted to discuss something with you but I want you to hear me out and then think about it, don't answer straight away.”  
“Ok.” I steel myself for what's coming.   
“I'll wipe the whole contract if that's what you want. Until now we've put it on hold in the hope that you'll come back, and we had a little time up our sleeves. The final Thor film is coming up and Loki will have a part in it one way or another. You made Loki the character that he is, Tom. You built him and you know him better than anyone. If you say no there's 'no' hard feelings, we'll let the lawyers nut out the contract and be done with it. If you do one more we'll let you out of it completely and re-negotiate this film.”  
“Kevin, I... I appreciate the offer, and it's incredibly generous, but the decision won't be a financial one for me. I just don't think I can do it again.”  
“I know it won't. We also need your creative input because as I said, no one knows all of Loki's ins and outs like you do. I understand you've been through a lot, the promotion probably seems quite daunting and coming back after such a big break would be incredibly difficult, but it's not like you're out of the industry completely.”  
“No, but I feel so at home behind the scenes, now.” I laugh and empty my glass. “You're getting me right in the guts, you know. It's Loki.”  
“I was hoping that might work in my favour. Just one more film, Tom. We can leave him out of the others but Ragnarok is kind of nothing without Loki. This isn't a threat, but if you should decide not to do it we would have to re-cast the role.”  
As soon as we started talking about Loki my interest piqued and my heart has been hammering in my chest ever since, excited energy making my fingers tap their own rhythm on the table top even while we talk about other things. It continues all the way home and long into the night.

Lying in bed I toy with the necklace around my neck, knowing I won't be getting much if any sleep tonight.   
“What do I do, love?” I ask it quietly, as though Cora will emerge in vapour form like a beautiful red-headed genie and give me all the answers.   
She doesn't, no matter how long I stare at the ceiling.

The following morning I'm more than a little excited to see Olivia on the train with a book in her lap. We were discussing our most recent reading and she suggested we both bring a book we think the other might like based on our micro hang-out sessions on the train. I've brought the Rohan Moss one I finished last week, which I was absolutely glued to every time I picked it up. The story is brilliantly developed with every imaginable plot hole sealed water tight and the characters so well thought out I want to know more about their back stories – so much so that I've conjured up my own theories in my head. Just the writing style was enough to suck me in to the first chapters, it is at once highly intelligent but unassuming in its casualness, encouraging the reader into deeper thought with such perfect subtlety you don't realise your mind has wandered from the page until you're so consumed by the story you chastise yourself for allowing the distraction.

Her bright smile is only for me this morning, her eyes following me all the way to my seat.   
“Good morning,” she chirps.  
“Good morning. You're very cheery this morning.”  
She chuckles and looks down at herself – today's tee shirt is a unicorn all dressed up in spring flowers and her shoes look like they're a custom 'Flower Power' pair from the 70s. All she needs is a flower or two in her glossy hair and she'd be an ethereal hippy punk goddess. Or something.  
“Thank you. This is for you, please don't think I'm accusing you of prior theiving by putting my name inside the cover, I do it with all of my books. Also my number is there because...” her eyes dart up to meet mine and then back down to the writing on the first page, “I felt strange exchanging books when we're yet to exchange phone numbers.”  
I laugh, the embarrassingly loud kind where my big mouth opens so wide my head falls back. “I did the same.”  
As I inspect the front cover of _Fidelity_ by Susan Glaspell I can't help but be impressed, it's one of the Kessinger exact reprints rather than the Persephone publications that have become more popular.   
“Have you read it?” she asks.  
“No. I'm amazed, actually. I honestly didn't think you'd give me something I didn't already have.”  
She does a constrained sort of dance in her seat and the pure joy on her face makes my brain fuzzy.  
“Olivia, do you drink coffee?”  
“Is that a trick question?”  
“I thought maybe you'd drink coffee with me... at a cafe somewhere. Maybe we could talk without the limit of a train journey.”  
“Oh! I'd love to.”  
“What about tomorrow morning? Somewhere closer to yours if you don't want to come in to the city?”  
“Okay. Well you have my number,” she says, pointing to the book.  
“Oh, shit.” I pull the book from my satchel. “This was recommended to me and I just loved it. It's brilliant. Genius. I kind of can't wait for you to start reading it so we can talk about it.”  
She takes it from me but doesn't say anything.   
“Olivia? You've read it, haven't you. I knew I should have gone for something more classic.”  
“Not exactly... So there's a nice quiet cafe near my station that does all day breakfast on weekends and they make great coffee.”  
“Sounds great, my number is in there.”  
When we both exit this morning she seems skittish and pale, as though she's seen someone she's keen to get away from, and I feel completely clueless as to what's going on. I can only assume if she still wants to have coffee with me tomorrow it's nothing that I did.

First up I have a rehearsal and before I've even made it into the space there's a text that makes butterflies dance in my chest.   
_[Hi Tom, meet me at The Full English on Chalk Road. Is 10am a good time for you? Looking forward to it, Olivia]  
_ Obviously I imagined it, or whatever caused her sudden balk wasn't me.   
“Why didn't you tell me you were meeting with Kevin?” Jo asks right in my ear, making me jump.  
“Because I wasn't sure what it was about, or what I wanted to come of it.” I frown up at her. “Actually I didn't tell anyone, who told you?”  
“Twitter. Word on the street is that you're making a career comeback with the third Thor film.”  
“Well that's not... nothing is confirmed. I haven't decided.”  
“There are some lovely pictures of your reunion with Kevin.”  
I feel like I might be sick. It's been so long since I worried about being photographed here, by the time I'd pulled out of Crimson Peak and the Hank Williams project collapsed Luke said pictures of me were worth next to nothing. Kevin Feige is a different story, of course. Anyone he meets with is rumour fodder, sometimes even his personal friends and family.  
“So are you doing the film?” she probes.  
“No... I don't know. Maybe.”  
She's silent but remains staring at me for longer than is socially acceptable.  
“What?”  
“I figured if I waited long enough that would turn into a yes,” she says with a laugh. “For god's sake, Tom. Smile, be happy about this. They _want_ you. Kevin Feige personally came looking for you, it's all your choice, now.”  
“I made my choice, though. It's done.”  
“This is life giving you another chance, Tom. It's life telling you that if you have the slightest sliver of doubt about the finality of that decision you can stand up now and say so. Not only that but you can do one more film and then be done with it. Tell the world you're retiring from acting and finish on a high.”  
“You don't think Coriolanus was enough of a high?” I feign offence with a gaping mouth.  
“You know what I mean. Do Loki one last time and let the end be yours, don't let what happened defeat you so badly that they have to bring in someone from the bench. No one else will ever play that part as well as you, there is no other Loki.”  
“Actually – ” I raise my finger but she slaps it away.  
“You know what I meant, Hiddleston.”

It isn't until we're on a break and I'm scrolling through my phone that I realise what happened with Olivia and slap my forehead with a loud groan.   
“Oh god, you idiot,” I say into my chicken salad.  
“What's wrong?” Jo asks.   
“I asked Olivia out this morning and she got kind of skittish. She probably saw me on some tabloid and knows I'm that washed-up actor.”  
“So she turned you down?”  
“No actually, she accepted and we're having coffee tomorrow. I thought it was about the book, but... I think I chose a bad book. We swapped, she gave me _Fidelity_ and I gave her _Commander of the Fallen_. A classic and a modern sci-fi thriller, they couldn't be more opposite.”  
“Maybe she's not heard of it and doesn't realise how good it is. You haven't read _Fidelity_ before?”  
“It's been on my list for years, but no.”  
“You'll love it. And she'll love yours, I'm sure. She said yes, Tom. You're worrying about nothing.” She smiles and nudges me. “You're going on a date.”

 _I'm going on a date._  
Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea?  
Everything outside the train window is brightly coloured, as though the arrival of spring means filling in between the lines with children's crayons. The sun is almost warm through the shoulder of my sweater, like a familiar hand resting there and reassuring me that the rest of the day will be fine even if the train journey feels entirely wrong. Every time we pull away from a station I'm startled by the movement of the carriage in the opposite direction to what I expect.

Olivia is focused on her phone screen when I arrive, a pair of sunglasses holding her loose hair from her eyes, streaks of fiery auburn lighting up with the sun at the outdoor table. Her sandaled feet bounce on the pavement under her chair, the long skirt of her pink dress fluttering around her ankles to their rhythm. A denim jacket covers her shoulders and when she looks up I recognise a little more makeup than usual and a faint berry stain on her plump lips.

A smile parts her lips as she stands and suddenly my heart is racing – am I supposed to kiss her hello? A hug is what I'd normally go for, or a light cheek peck, but we've come to know each other on a deeper level than that, I think. Why didn't I look up first date kissing etiquette before now? I'm only a couple of steps away and still have no idea what to do when she opens her arms, saving me from the awkwardness of going in for a kiss and being denied.

I wrap my arms around her and immediately my head is filled with a mix of jasmine and berries. I'm conscious of her face being right level with the centre of my chest and make an effort not to hold her too tight or too long, just enough for her warmth to permeate my light sweater and her hair to brush the skin just above my collar.   
“Hi,” I say with a nervous chuckle. “How are you?”  
“Good, yeah.” I'm surprised that she seems almost as nervous as I am.   
“Do you have family?” I blurt out as we sit down. Immediately I wish the ground would swallow me up. “I mean obviously...”  
She laughs. “I do, yes. Two parents, two brothers. We're all very close.”  
“Was that one of your brothers, the day we met in the city?”  
“No, that was Jonah. We've been friends since school and we share an office.”  
“Friend, not boyfriend?”  
She smiles up at me over her menu. “Depends who's asking.”  
“And if I'm very tentatively asking?” I almost choke on the words and they come off far less confident than I'd like.  
“He's just a friend. I'm not his type, if you know what I mean.” She winks dramatically. “What about you?”  
“Me? No, I'm definitely straight.”  
She rolls her eyes. “Family? Girlfriend?”  
“No girlfriend.” My chest flutters when her face lights up with a coy smile. “I have two sisters I'm very close to, and my mum and dad.”

Slowly, almost unnoticeably at first, she relaxes as the conversation progresses and our food arrives. Where she initially sat up tall with her shoulders back and her posture so perfect I could imagine a grand piano in front of her, by the time she convinces me to try some of her french toast, bacon, and maple syrup – which is a strange and delicious combination, by the way – she's leaning toward me so that if I were just a little taller I'd be able to see down the 'V' in the centre of her dress. Not that I would look, of course, but she's a woman and I'm a breast man and it's difficult not to notice the way the fabric hugs the swell and the dips back in against her waist.   
“Didn't I tell you? Is that not the most exquisite thing you've ever tasted?” Her face is now almost intimately close to mine, enough that I can add her summery scent to the taste sensation on my tongue, and she watches my mouth with a Mona Lisa-style curl to her lips, as though she's just told me the greatest secret on earth.  
“It's um...” I regretfully tear my eyes from her lips. “It really works, yeah. Wow.”  
“I told you. Also, cheese, coffee, honey. Thank me later.”  
I scrunch my nose at the thought. “That sounds like a terrible waste of coffee.”  
“I'll make it for you someday.”

Olivia relaxes back into her chair with a sigh, laying her hands on her stomach. “I'm so full. Food baby full.”  
I laugh as she picks up the fork and takes another mouthful, some of the maple syrup clinging and glistening in the corner of her mouth. How refreshing to watch a woman eat with complete abandon, adding a side of bacon and extra maple syrup to an already well-sized meal. She chuckles along with me and sips her coffee.  
“It's too good to stop.”  
Cora always had a healthy appetite, up until she didn't. She never made a fuss about food, though, she loved to eat and drink as much as the rest of us.

“Tom?”   
I tried to stop the thought but like a downhill train I've applied the brakes far too late and the resultant reaction is completely out of my control, such that I can feel the blood has drained from my face.  
“I'm... sorry. What were you saying?”  
“Are you okay?”  
I force my shoulders down and back from my ears where they seem to have planted themselves and squeeze both hands hard into my thighs under the table, pasting a smile on my face and looking straight into her eyes. “Yes. Sorry.”  
“It's all right, I just asked how your food was?”  
I look down at my plate as my mind returns to the present moment, the here and now. Where it needs to stay. It's not at all safe to think of Cora in these situations, lest I turn catatonic and frighten her off completely. God, what if it happened during sex?   
And now my dick is awake because I momentarily thought about sex, and in a dark dank corner of my mind my conscience is self-flagellating because I thought about sex with Olivia, not Cora.   
What if it did happen during sex, though? Fuck, what if I finish too quickly? What if I don't even remember how, it's been so long? Oh god, it's been so fucking long... too long... years... long.  
I clear my throat and force my gaze upward and deliberately skip over her chest. “It's amazing. The _Full English_ does an amazing Full English.”  
“I know, right?”

“Walk me home?” she asks when we're both buzzing from our second coffee.   
With all awkwardness forgotten I bend my arm and hold it out for her to link into. “Lead the way.”  
The ten minute stroll is quiet but easy, the breeze dancing cool on my sun-warmed face as we fall into step together. Olivia's arm remains hooked into mine for the first couple of minutes and then shifts to a more comfortable position where they're wrapped around each other without actually holding hands. It feels friendly and familiar without any assumption, and all too soon she's stopping on the first step up to a five-storey brick building and turning to face me.   
“This is me,” she says, releasing my arm. Standing a step higher she's closer to my height although I still have to look down to her face.   
“I had a lovely morning, Olivia. Thank you.”  
“You're welcome to come up, if you like.”  
“I ah...” I laugh nervously. “I shouldn't. We'll do it again, though?”  
“Absolutely. I'm really glad, we... yeah. So I'll see you on Monday, I guess.”  
“You certainly will. We can even talk before then, you have my number.”  
“And you have mine.” She smiles and her turquoise eyes flick to my lips so quickly I'd have missed it if I weren't looking for a sign. Before I can make a move, though, she takes my face in both hands and presses a gentle kiss to my lips, lingering just a second or two before she pulls back and lowers her arms. An obvious blush colours her cheeks when I open my eyes, my lips tingling and holding the remnants of berry lip gloss when I swipe my tongue out to moisten them.   
“Have an awesome day, Tom,” she chirrups before turning and ascending the stairs with sprightly steps.

I see her inside the heavy front doors before turning away, smiling back at her when she looks back over her shoulder as it closes. There's no doubt in my mind now, we've just ended our first date and my feelings toward her are certainly reciprocated. Except for the rampant terror and fear that churn my stomach, I'm pretty sure that's all mine.

 


	7. Nightmare Abbey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for this chapter - suicide (hanging). Not a main character, happened in the past. Please proceed with caution.

## Olivia

“There was something very... guarded about him, I guess. He is lovely, though. Very well educated, articulate, funny.”  
Tom and I had our second date over the weekend just gone, the classic dinner and a movie, after which he escorted me home and kissed me until I was breathless at my door.  
“You sound very impressed,” Jonah says from the other side of the office couch. “He didn't spend the night?”  
I'm almost embarrassed at the school girl giggle that fires from my mouth. “No, not for lack of trying. Apparently he's a gentleman. Either that or he just doesn't want to sleep with me.”  
Then again, the makeout session in the empty movie theatre before anyone else arrived kind of negates that idea.  
“Hussy.”  
“He took me out a second time, that answers the question of whether he's interested.”  
“When are you going to tell him about the book, then?”  
My head falls back against the headrest and I groan. “I don't know! I guess if it goes well I have to tell him eventually.”  
“I'd be pissed if we'd been dating for six months and you confessed something like that. It's not some deep dark secret you should be ashamed of, just tell him!”  
“Mm. Just so you know, I paid for this coffee.” I hold up my cup and turn it around. “No phone number.”  
“Did something happen to Harry?”  
“No, I told him I was seeing someone and from now on I was paying for my coffee.”  
If I’m honest, Harry was like a safety net, like the best friend you agree to marry if you’re both still single when you’re 40. He’s good looking and funny, and he flattered me almost daily. He noticed me, and I liked it.   
“Good.” Jonah nods. “You don’t need to keep him on the hook because he shows an interest. More men notice you than you realise, Liv.”  
For someone who has no intrinsic understanding of non-verbal communication, sometimes he shows the most astounding intuition.

When Tom said he'd just finished a great book and I chimed in with 'we should exchange books, choose something we think the other would like' the enthusiasm on his face was unforgettable, and I knew as soon as he saw the front cover of _Fidelity_ I'd nailed it. When he handed me the one he'd chosen, though, my chest got tight and I felt the blood drain from my face. So far I've steered him gently away from the topic of my career, except to say that I still do casual days with the London Library, because only those very close to me know I wrote a bestselling novel. I'm not interested in book tours or signings, the whole social scene doesn't interest me. I go to a lot of events with other writers and listen to them speak but the thought of talking in front of all those people gives me cold sweats. As soon as my book started to do well I was glad I'd altered the publishing contract to exclude that sort of promotion, and I hired an agent whose sole responsibility is making sure I'm _not_ personally advertised. It's about the book, and the work I put into it.

So when Tom handed me the one and only book that I wrote – out of all the books he could have chosen – I immediately felt the blood evacuate my face. Some time very soon I'll have to confess I'm not just 'Olivia the freelance writer' but the woman behind the 'Rohan Moss' pseudonym. It isn't that I'm not proud of my work, I remember every bead of sweat and exactly where my eyes drooped closed while I was writing it, it took every bit of energy I had and left me utterly spent before I'd even edited the blasted thing, it's the hardest and greatest thing I've ever done in my life. I like it to stand alone, though. I want people to like the book without knowing anything about the average boring woman who wrote it. Whether Tom ends up being a friend or someone I fall in love with, his opinion will forever be influenced by his feelings toward me.

Truth be told I want him to like both me and the book. Individually. As separate entities without any connection.

We've been talking on the tube every day since our first date just like we did before, although perhaps leaning in a little closer than we used to, and we agreed not to rush into anything. Tom has this weekend fully booked so we're planning another date for the following one, and to be honest I'm hoping for somewhere quiet where we can just get to know each other. I feel like I could name all of his favourite books, his political opinions, his likes and dislikes in music, but we haven't really gone any deeper than that. What kind of man is he, where did he grow up, what is his family like? And likewise, he seems enamored with the idea of us dating but he barely knows anything about me because he's barely scratched the surface of what makes me the way I am.

On Friday afternoon I'm mid-sentence when out of the blue my brother's face appears on my phone screen. It's an old photo, a rare carefree smile is lighting up his face brighter than the Christmas lights in the background. I have more recent ones but this is such a happy picture I intend to keep it until I catch a better one.   
“Hey, Livi,” he says when I answer. “How's my favourite sister?”  
“Great. How are you?”  
In the past this might have been a loaded question for Caleb, but I know he's been really well the last few years, thankfully picking himself up from rock bottom after half a lifetime of depression and crippling anxiety.   
“I'm in your neighbourhood, actually. Can I come and see you?”  
“I'm at work, Caleb. What's wrong?”  
“Yeah, I meant I'm near your office. And nothing's wrong, I just wanted to see you.”  
“Oh. Come up, then.”

Jonah returns hastily to his desk but I catch him smoothing a hand over his dark hair on the way.   
“Caleb?” he asks. If the word 'chalant' existed it would describe his tone perfectly.   
“Yeah. We'll go out for coffee or something so we don't disturb you.”  
“I'm not that busy today, you're welcome to stay.”  
I've been hinting at them being perfect for each other for a while, but since I generally only see him once a year at Christmas I’ve never found the time to be playing match-maker. We speak regularly but he withdrew from the world for so long I wonder if he’ll ever be the same. It's a shame, really, because Caleb is so sweet and funny and I always remember him being so easy going as a child. Of my older twin brothers he was always the fun and mischievous one without being set on doing anything terribly outrageous. He'd skip school and go read a book by the river, sweet talk his way out of class to practice the piano. Joseph on the other hand would stop by any classes Caleb had missed and bring home his homework, sneaking it past mum and dad even though they always knew what was going on.

“Hey, sis,” he says as he wraps his arms around me. He just barely hits six feet – even if he stands up straight and his hair is a little floofy – but it still feels like he towers over me. I hold him tight and breathe in – the one thing you can always rely on with Caleb is that he smells divine, he has amazing taste in cologne.   
“I missed you.”  
“You’re going to be seeing more of me, I’m moving into the city.” He’s rocking on his heels with excitement, a huge smile spreading across his face.  
“Come sit and tell me about it!” I drag him by the hand toward the couch.

“Caleb, you remember Jonah?” I say as we move past Jonah's desk.  
“Of course I do. Been a long time, though.”  
Like the seasoned expert that he is Jonah switches on his well-practiced social skills, like a mask that pulls down over his face. “Nice to see you again, Caleb. How have you been?”  
“Great, thanks.”   
“You're bigger than last time I saw you.”  
Caleb laughs and blushes. “I've spent a lot of time in the gym.” I can see him checking Jonah out the way a lot of other people do and again I think what a lovely couple they could be. Where most people who are physically attracted to him are put off by his direct way of speaking and tendency to voice his less appropriate thoughts, Caleb already knows all of that.   
“We should all go out for dinner,” Caleb says excitedly.   
“I'm not sure that's – ”  
“That sounds great,” Jonah interrupts me. I give him a look of 'really?' but it's completely lost on him. “I know a really great pizza place.”  
“I love pizza,” Caleb says with a grin in my direction.   
“Hold on.” I hold up a hand to each of them as though I'm breaking up a fight. “How about we talk, and then you two can go get pizza?”  
“Uh...” Jonah’s giving me a pleading look.  
“Another time, maybe,” Caleb says.  
I glance over at Jonah, expecting him to be relieved at being let off the hook and instead finding him still giving me the same desperate look. How can I deny him a chance to socialise when I’m always trying to push him into this sort of thing?  
I sigh. “Fine.”

It’s still early so the pub we’ve ended up in is far quieter than the bustle of people passing outside. Watching Caleb and Jonah is quite a fascinating experience, they’re almost matched in their awkwardness and both trying their hardest to start their own conversation while having to include me because they can’t think of anything to talk about.   
“So you’re moving?” I ask Caleb.  
“Yeah, I start a new position next month at Saint Bart’s hospital. Senior Clinical Pharmacist,” he says proudly.  
“Good hospital,” Jonah says with a completely serious nod.   
“It is.” I smile at Caleb’s confusion but decide to leave it for Jonah to explain – it will give them something to talk about. “That’s really great.”

For a while I just throw leading questions at them both and by default they start talking to each other. Caleb has such a beautiful, passionate, and sensitive soul that I've always wanted to see him in a loving and supportive relationship, especially given the last one almost brought his life to an end. No one was surprised when Caleb came out, in fact most people were more upset that he'd been in a relationship with another boy from his year and kept it secret for at least six months. Even without him saying anything Joseph and I at least knew he was gay and I'm fairly confident mum and dad did as well, so at some point it had crossed all of our minds that he and Will might be more than just best friends.

There was no fanfare or big announcement for Caleb, he simply stopped denying it and was as honest with his peers as he'd always been with himself. None of us ever thought to just ask him to his face, but I'm sure if we had he would have answered with 'yeah, what of it?' and moved on. As it was we were sitting at the dinner table one warm evening after the bombing of the _Admiral Duncan_ in SoHo and he just sort of casually worked it into the conversation. I don't ever recall him being ashamed or in any way uncomfortable about it, not the way his boyfriend was.

Will and Caleb had been close since primary school and their relationship just sort of organically evolved into a romantic one. I asked Caleb about it once and he said he remembered their first kiss, the first time they had sex, but couldn't really put his finger on when they moved from friends to lovers.   
“I think we held hands one day,” he said, “and it just went from there.”   
Will wasn't like Caleb, though. He wasn't out and open and proud, he was raised in a strict catholic family who believed he was an aberration, they tried to keep Caleb and him apart and even searched for a priest who would perform an exorcism on their son. Caleb didn't mind keeping things quiet, mum and dad were happy for them to hang out at our house and even pretended not to know, and they kept all of their contact behind closed doors... except for that one day where they got a little over excited after a swim meet and were caught with their bodies tangled in the showers by another student. The trouble they ended up in was justified, but the harassment and torture for the next month of school was not. Caleb did his best to comfort Will and protect him from the wrath of soul-crushing names like 'fag' or 'fairy', but after an incident in class where the teacher allowed this to go on – and told Will he needed to harden up – Caleb took matters into his own hands.

Unable to contain his rage any longer he stood, picked up his bag, and punched the offending bully in the face on his way out the door, promptly taking himself to the principal's office – because that's the kind of student he was. Unfortunately on the way home from school he copped the wrath of the victim's friends and ended up with two broken ribs and a dozen stitches above his eye, all the while joking with the nurses that it was worth it and they 'should see the other guy.'

Will hanged himself that night.

It was only that Caleb insisted on going to school the next day in spite of his injuries, and that he went to Will's house looking for him, that he found him hanging in the closet with his belt as a noose. The haunted look of a man who has found his boyfriend's lifeless body has never left his eyes. Caleb wasn't allowed at the funeral, although Will's younger sister did approach me the week later and wordlessly tuck something into my hand – the bracelet he was wearing when he died. Caleb still has it, he didn't take it off his wrist until the braided leather began to wear and fray and he worried it would be lost.

Caleb was never the same. My confident, easy going, mischievous brother would tell me over and over again for weeks that he wished himself dead too, and I believe a part of him did die that day along with Will. 15 years later I wonder what he might have been like if that hadn't happened, if he and Will would have stayed together or if they'd have broken each other's hearts. I doubt he will ever fully dismiss the black cloud that formed over him during the weeks that followed, but at least now with a good psychologist and medication he seems to have dealt with it. It's only the last few years, since Joseph settled down with his wife and had children, that I think Caleb realised he couldn't run from it forever and that he wanted a family of his own.

Waiting at the bar for the next round of drinks I watch them talking, comforted to see that Jonah is actually leaning in toward Caleb while he listens, even making him laugh.   
“There are a hundred lines I could throw at you right now, but I have to save my best for our next date,” a familiar voice says from my right.  
“Tom! What are you doing here?” I turn to face him and he kisses my cheek, resting a light hand on my waist for just a second longer than a friend would.  
“Just having a drink with a friend. You?”  
“The same.” I look up and find Jonah and Caleb watching me, Caleb especially looks like I'm doing something highly illegal. “I'd better get these back to the table.”  
“I'll talk to you soon, okay?”  
“Definitely.”

Caleb tugs on my arm so hard that I almost drop his beer in his lap. “You know him?”  
Jonah stifles something like a snigger.  
“Um, yes, we actually met on the Tube. Why?”  
“He's an actor. In films.”  
“Such as?”  
“Oh, a little thing called Avengers? Thor? War Horse?”  
I frown in disbelief. “Like from the comic books? He doesn't look anything like Thor!”  
“He played Thor's brother, Loki. And then he just kind of faded away, retired from acting.”  
“Oooh, Livi, you're dating a celebrity,” Jonah sing-songs.  
“You're _dating_ him?”  
“We've been on a couple of dates, yes. Is that a problem?”  
“No, it's awesome!”

Once I've redirected the conversation my mind begins to process what Caleb said. The films he named are big ones, whether I've seen them or not isn't any gauge on their success. This is the last thing I expected and I feel so blindsided I'm mildly nauseous, and hearing it from my brother instead of Tom himself is like salt to a paper cut. I pull out my phone and hesitate a few seconds before typing _‘Avengers cast’_ into Google, scanning over a few names I recognise before my breath catches – _‘Tom Hiddleston. Loki.’_

I'm brought out of my whirling thoughts by a swift kick to the shin.  
“Caleb, what the fuck?”  
He says nothing, just gestures upward with his eyes, and then a familiar scent surrounds me and a tall form appears at my side. Even though we're sitting on bar stools at a raised table Tom still towers over me, and I fumble my phone onto the table face down. If he saw what I was doing he gives no indication.   
“I didn't mean to interrupt, just that I'm heading home and thought I'd... yeah... ehehe,” he laughs a little nervously, probably due to the look he's getting from Caleb.  
“Tom, this is my brother Caleb and my friend Jonah.”  
“I'm kind of a fan,” Caleb says as he shakes Tom's hand. “Can you... would you like to join us?”  
Apparently if Caleb sees my 'what are you doing?' stare he ignores it.  
“Oh, I don't want to crash your dinner.”  
“Not at all.” Caleb is already up and making room for an extra stool. “We've ordered enough pizza to feed a small country, so it's not a problem.”  
Tom looks to me. “If you're sure?”  
“Of course, have a seat. You'd meet these guys eventually anyway.”

How wrong could this go? Let me count the ways...

“I must apologise, I recognised you immediately and I was telling Olivia about your films. I really thought your Loki was fantastic.”  
“Ehehe, thank you.” Tom blushes. “I wasn't keeping it from her I just figured if she didn't already know that might not be a bad thing.”  
“So what happened? You just sort of stopped? Is it true there's a third Thor film coming?”  
“Caleb, enough!” I snap. “Let the poor man be!”  
“It's okay, truly. I just had some things going on and had to take time off, now I'm happier working in theatre. As for a third film, there was always one planned.”  
Caleb opens and closes his mouth. “Well it's great to meet you.”  
“Sorry,” I say quietly.  
Tom's long fingers find mine, resting on my thigh beneath the table, and thread between them with a comforting squeeze. “It's fine, darling. Not how I wanted you to find out, but I don't mind talking about it.”

Thankfully it only takes another couple of well-placed kicks to bring Caleb back to safer conversation topics and the rest of the conversation goes almost too well. It turns out Tom is a brilliant storyteller even if he's not trying to work his charms on a woman and he keeps the rest of us enthralled without ever feeling like he's not interested in what we have to add.  
 _How does he do that?_  
I cover a yawn with my hand and he smiles, bringing his beer to his lips to finish it off.   
“Can I see you safely home, Olivia?”  
“That sounds lovely.” I pick up my satchel and it snags on the chair, promptly spilling my personal belongings all over the floor.   
Tom bends to help me, handing me a lipstick, three pens, and two tampons that have made a run for it across the floor while I silently beg the ground to swallow me up. Caleb holds out my book and my notebook with a laugh, and his words spill out before I can stop him.   
“Why are you carrying your own book around?”  
“I... it’s Tom’s, actually. He loaned it to me.”  
“Oh I wasn't sure if you'd started yet, are you enjoying it?” Tom asks. “Isn't it just amazing? Where are you up to? I won't give it away, but there's a twist that is just genius.”  
“Well she'd know that, she wrote it!”  
God bless him, I don't know what he's thinking except that he should do something, and Caleb is cut off by Jonah covering his mouth... with his own. Poor Tom is just staring at me with his mouth open like he has no comprehension whatsoever of the last few seconds.  
“What is he talking about?”  
“I'll explain on the way home.”

Jonah and Caleb are still kissing. It's so sweet it makes a lump in my throat, Caleb's hand is holding the back of Jonah's neck while Jonah's are resting somewhat awkwardly on Caleb's narrow hips.   
“I didn't realise they were together,” Tom whispers, his breath warming my ear.  
“They weren't.” I giggle softly as I hear him do the same. “But I guess that just changed.”  
When they finally stop it's like one of those movie kisses where neither really wants to break the spell by opening their eyes, and then they realise they've just kissed in front of a pub full of people, both of them blushing so hard they could warm half of London.

Tom’s hand is warm on my lower back as he leans in close. “I think we should leave them to it, don’t you?”  
“Just give me one minute.” I find Jonah still kind of stunned but smiling and pull him into a tight embrace. “You okay there, honey?”  
“I think so,” he says slowly. “Olivia, what do I do now?”  
I try not to laugh, covering it with just a tiny smile. “What do you want to do?”  
“I think I want to kiss him again. Often.”  
“Okay, but for right now, would you like Caleb to see you home? Or would you prefer to just go alone?”  
“I... I think I wouldn't mind him walking me home, but just to the door.”  
Caleb is in a similar state, if a little more pleased with himself, but the grin disappears when I poke a finger into his chest. “Do not push him. You make sure he gets to the door but do not go in even if he invites you, okay?”  
“Livi, stop worrying. It’s been a while but I remember the difference between polite Jonah and genuine Jonah, I’ll walk him home and go back to my hotel, I swear.”  
“Good.” I hug him and take one last lungful of his scent, wondering if I could get away with wearing it myself it smells so good. “I love you. Call me tomorrow.”  
“Love you too.”

The walk to the Tube is quiet, as is the journey. I don't know how to adequately explain myself, I have a million questions about why Caleb immediately recognised Tom, and I'm worried about Jonah making it home without incident. I know Caleb will see him home in one piece physically but I really worry about his mental state after a night like tonight, I should have gone with him or at least be sure I'm available to talk to him when he gets home. As we pull into Tom's station he shifts his satchel on his shoulder and begins to stand, and my heart sinks.  
“Tom, wait.” I reach out for his hand, and he surprises me by closing his fingers around mine and pulling me up and off when the doors open.  
“It's a beautiful night, I thought we could walk and talk the rest of the way,” he says with a smile.   
“Oh. I thought you were going home because you'd had enough of me.”  
“Certainly not. Shall we begin with 'I used to be an actor', or would you like to explain first?”

Being a writer does not in any way guarantee you'll also be good with the spoken word, and oh my lord am I proving that fact this evening. I'm doing my best to explain and he just doesn't seem to be getting it at all.   
“I get that maybe you use a pseudonym to keep your identity under wraps, but writing something like that is an achievement to be incredibly proud of. Why not celebrate that?”  
“I do, with those close to me. I guess my life is just exactly how I wanted it and I don't want it to change. I'm not comfortable sitting in front of a room full of people and talking about myself like other authors, I don't have a process that I could share and benefit anyone else, I just type and the words come out, but then I sound like a douche who just vomits beautiful imagery when the truth is it sometimes takes me days to write a paragraph and I can't move on until it's perfect. Even after all of that my first drafts are more diarrhea on a page than anything else. I want people to like the book for the book and me for me, you know?”  
He clearly doesn’t know, he’s still frowning.  
“I guess I didn't tell you in the beginning because I wasn't sure where we would end up, and then you handed me my book and I didn't get a chance to say anything. I figured I would tell you I just needed the right moment and it hadn't arrived yet. That's why I've been carrying it around, to give it back to you. Tom, I know how much you read and what sort of books you like, so to hear you raving like that about mine was just... you rendered me speechless. In the back of my mind I wondered if it was a joke, or you were testing me to see if I’d tell you what I really thought so you could agree that it was utter rubbish.”  
I look up and he's still frowning.  
“Christ, I'm making an absolute mess of this.”  
“It's okay,” he says with a smile. “I’m still trying to process it. I hope this doesn’t come across the wrong way but I actually thought you were a man.” He stops dead on the path. “I mean, not _you_ were a man, but the author was.”  
“That was part of the idea of choosing a gender neutral pseudonym, I wondered if that would happen. I wish I could find out how it would perform under a male author versus female, it would be really interesting.”  
“Like George Eliot.”  
“Yes! She’s one of my biggest inspirations.”  
“She is a masterful writer, I just recently read _Middlemarch_.”  
“Um... I know. It was one of the things about you that caught my attention.”  
He looks down and shakes his head. “Wow. I had no idea you’d noticed me, too.”

I give it a minute of silence but we're rapidly approaching my apartment and I need to know the story.   
“So, you're an actor?”  
He laughs that light, airy laugh that makes my chest flutter every time. “Guilty as charged. Not any more, though. My last role was in Coriolanus at the Donmar, in 2014. I took a couple of years off and now I'm back working there.”  
“Why did you stop? Caleb made it sound like you were hugely successful, I'm guessing it wasn't lack of work.”  
“No, I actually had to renege on a couple of projects. I wouldn't say hugely successful but the Thor films had really landed me some amazing opportunities. I had some personal stuff... family, really... and I needed to spend some time at home.” He draws a breath that catches in his throat and I feel like I've pried into something I shouldn't have.  
“Tom, you don't owe me any further explanation.”  
“I do, though. I didn't tell you because I thought you might Google me and find out who I was, that is, who I used to be. I suppose like you, I want to be liked for who I am now rather than that crazy guy who played Loki and would do anything for a laugh.”  
I slow my steps as we arrive at my building. “For what it's worth, I do like what I've seen so far. Surely you’re the same man you were then?”  
“Yes and no.” He rests his hands on my hips. “There’s a lot more to me than that, not everything shows in interviews.”  
“I’m sorry, Tom. I should have told you about the book when you gave it to me.”  
“And I should have been honest with you. I met with the head of Marvel not long ago and had drinks with my publicist tonight, so... Promise me whatever you might read about me, you’ll believe me and not the tabloids?”  
I stand up on my toes and reach behind his neck, pulling his lips to mine and kissing him slowly.   
“I have no interest in gossip, Tom. Just you.” Our faces still hover perilously close, the tiny soft hairs on the back of his neck standing up beneath my fingers.  
This time it’s Tom leaning down to kiss me hungrily, his hands on my back and holding me so hard against him I can feel his abs through both of our shirts, and before he pulls away there’s definitely something else pressing between us. Suddenly I don’t care that I haven’t had my waxing appointment yet, or put new sheets on the bed, or made sure there’s fresh groceries for Tom’s breakfast, that I’m not wearing matching underwear, and I’m in my usual jeans-t-shirt-chuck taylor combo, or any of the hundred other things I thought about doing before our third date so I could invite him into my bedroom.   
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” I ask as I’m fishing for my keys.   
“I don’t even know where to begin.”  
“You’d best come inside, then.”

 


	8. Invaders from the Dark

Olivia's flat is modern and neat on the inside – in other words, just like every other of its kind on the outskirts of London – painted and furnished in grey tones that might have been chosen to match the view outside. The odd shade of blue furthers that theory, but then as she flicks on more lights and we move further inside it's like peeling back layers, more of her personal touches appearing as we approach the centre. The living room is first, no surprises there, except for the electric blue sequined cushion in the middle of the couch, but then almost an entire wall of the kitchen is taken up with a garish 'Muse' poster, and the refrigerator is entirely covered in blackboard paint with doodles, lists, and inspiring quotes adorning it in a rainbow of colours.   
“Can I get you a drink or something?” she asks, taking a bottle of soda water from the fridge.  
“No, thank you,” I decline, leaning on the bench. “I love what you've done with your fridge.”  
She laughs. “Thanks. It was Jonah's idea, supposed to help me remember everything.”  
“And does it”?  
“No,” she says simply. “But it's fun to doodle on.”  
Now that I'm looking closer I can see things like 'put the bins out' and 'pay phone bill' in amongst the rest of the writing and pictures.

Standing in front of me her hands automatically rest on my chest while mine go to her waist, our lips meeting softly a number of times before the kiss deepens. We've reached that magical stage, where the nervous tension that used to precede our kisses has been replaced with a more pleasant tightening of my stomach in excitement when our lips and tongues meet. Olivia's fingers thread into the curls at the back of my neck, making goosebumps prickle all over my back, as her tongue laps gently at mine. She has the sweetest kisses, her lips are plump and naturally deep pink, fitting perfectly between mine as she nibbles my bottom lip. This isn't how I expected my evening to go – after a few drinks with Luke where he actually tried to call Kevin Feige on my phone I thought it would be all downhill – but it feels right. She fits so perfectly in my arms, on my lips, with her scent filling my nostrils and her breasts pressed against me as I pull her closer. I love that this is happening when she isn't especially dressed up for a date, because this is the Olivia that I know, the one I've admired for so long, with Felix the Cat on her yellow t-shirt and peace signs on her Converse sneakers, her hair tucked haphazardly behind her ears and thick fringe falling right into her eyes.

We move to the couch and I quickly find myself playing with the 2-coloured sequins on the cushion while we talk.   
“Is that a side of Jonah you haven't really seen before?”  
“Definitely.” She shakes her head and smiles. “I've always thought they'd make a nice couple, but I did _not_ see that coming. I didn't think he had it in him.”  
“Does he have trouble with relationships?”  
“Yeah. He just needs someone who will be patient and understand. Caleb can do that if he gets the opportunity, he just doesn't know when to shut his mouth sometimes. I'm sorry you had to find out that way.”  
I'm fascinated by Jonah – if it weren't for manners I'd have a thousand questions about him – and I think one of the sweetest and most endearing qualities of her is the way she just rolls with him and doesn't treat him any differently. She isn't his best friend out of charity and she doesn't hang out with him every day out of obligation, she genuinely loves him _because_ of his quirks and would quite literally change the rest of the world to make his life easier if she could.   
“You and Caleb seem pretty close.”  
“We always have been, the three of us are. He's probably closer to Joseph because of the twin thing but he always knows he can call me when he needs to. I think maybe when Joseph got busy with a wife and kids Caleb felt like a bit of a burden, but I like that he calls me. He hasn't been really low for so long now, I think he's put it all behind him. I hope he has, he deserves to have some of his happiness back.”

She shifts closer to me on the couch, her hand trailing down my chest. For comfort and ease of movement during rehearsals I've taken to wearing t-shirts most days to work, unfortunately that probably means my nipples are poking through quite clearly. When she kisses me there's a new urgency, a kind of desire behind it that wasn't there before. My hands act of their own accord, finding the exposed skin between her t-shirt and jeans and letting my fingertips drag across it, her breath catching sharply at my light touch. I'm helpless against her barely audible whimpers, her body pressing against mine and her hands wandering my back, lost in her scent and her warmth, her coy yet incredibly sexy smile as she shifts to sit flush against me and wrap her legs around my hips. As I kiss down her jaw to her neck she gasps and scratches my scalp with her nails while I slide my hands up her back, gathering her shirt as I go until I can sweep it over her head. I pull back after kissing her shoulder and gently touch the skin of her chest for the first time, tracing down to her breasts and along the line of her pale pink bra. With an observative fascination she watches my fingers, her skin flushing with colour and her breath coming a little faster as I delve beneath the satin and ease a strap from her shoulder.

Claiming my lips again she scoops the hem of my t-shirt upward and over my head, running the pads of her fingers right down the centre of my chest where they catch on the leather cord and its pendant, making me draw a sharp, panicked breath. I'm thrust back to my senses and mind, my skin draining of all warmth as I pull away. Olivia seems unaffected, toying with the pendant with a delicate hand until she catches my expression and lets it fall back against my chest.   
“Is everything okay?”  
“I... Yes.” I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile because everything else just gets caught in my throat.   
Taking me by surprise she lays back and pulls me down on top, gazing into my eyes while her nails drag over my upper back. In an effort to focus my attention back on Olivia I kiss her deeply once more, cupping her heavy breast in my hand and rubbing between them with my thumb, only to find the pendant now resting there.

With a heavy sigh I pull back and ease the cord over my head, holding the necklace tight in my hand before setting it down on the coffee table, but as soon as I look back into Olivia's eyes I know the moment is lost.  
“Tom.” She brushes my cheekbone with her thumb and the thick lump in my throat threatens to cut off my airway altogether. “We don't have to do this.”  
“It's not that, it's not you. I just... it's been a long time, and...”  
“You don't need to worry about that, if it's bothering you. I don't think that's what this is about, though.”  
I shake my head. “I want to. God, Olivia, please don't think that I don't want you. I do. I want you, and I want us.” And I'm trying so fucking hard, she'll never know.   
She presses one hand against my chest until I sit back up and then calmly picks up her t-shirt, pulling it back over her head. “Please talk to me, Tom. I mean you don't have to, if it's too personal, but if you'd like to you can tell me anything.”  
“My last... there was a woman, and... well I guess first and last...”  
Olivia lays a hand on my knee. “Would you like a drink now?”  
“God yes. Please.”

I can't hide a chuckle when she returns with two tumblers and a bottle of scotch, setting it down on the table and pouring a generous amount into both. While she was gone I put my shirt back on and tried to work out how to explain without becoming a catatonic mess. The scotch burns just nicely down my throat and I hate to admit it immediately calms my shaking limbs enough that my foot stops bouncing.  
“So,” she says after a liberal mouthful. “Why don't we just talk for a bit. About anything you want.”  
“I want you to know I didn't come in to this lightly, Olivia. It took a lot of analysing and soul searching to give in and ask you out, I would never do that if I didn't think I could be an adequate partner. I just wasn't prepared for this to happen tonight, I suppose.”  
“It doesn't have to. We can take our time.”  
I sigh and fish the pendant from the table, holding it out for her to look at. “There was a woman, a long time ago. She came into my life when I was at RADA and we were very close. I loved her, I was in love with her for a long time but I didn't know... I went away to film project after project when I should have stayed.”  
“Didn't know what?” she prompts, holding the cool metal in her delicate hand and studying the outside.  
“She – her name was Cora – caught a virus and had to miss a tour to Europe, I thought she just had a cold and had gotten over it. So we went on a date, and it was so perfect.” I glance over at Olivia and blush. “But then she said we couldn't be together, she didn't want that. What she didn't tell me was that she wasn't getting better, she needed a new heart. I left, I was selfish and put my career first. If I'd been here, seen her getting so sick, I would have known something wasn't right. Anyway, she eventually got her new heart. She called to tell me and I'll never forget how excited she was, she thought she'd finally have a normal life and be able to work. When I stepped away from acting it was to be with her, her body rejected the heart and just kept getting worse and worse, everything just went horribly wrong. She ran out of time.”  
Olivia's fingers tenderly wipe away the moisture beneath my eyes and when I look up there are tears streaming down her cheeks, too. She holds out the leather and guides it over my head, the weight of the pendant warm against my chest once more. “I'm so sorry, Tom. I don't know what else to say.”  
I hold the pendant delicately out from my neck. “She left this for me, with her fingerprint and a lock of her hair in it. I haven't taken it off until now.”  
“I'd never expect you to, but I can understand it being weird to wear it while we... you know.”  
I should have known she'd be so amazingly understanding, and I should have known something like this would happen to derail things. Am I really going to do this? Move on and be with another woman? Fall for her and let her steal another part of my heart when it's still in pieces?

I take another long drink and rub my forehead. “Christ, I should never have put you in this position.”  
“Tom, relax.” Olivia rubs takes my hand in both of hers, barely enclosing my palm. “I know we've seen a lot of each other but we've been on two dates. Don't be so hard on yourself, there's no rush. I can't imagine how hard it must have been to lose someone you loved so deeply, but if I'd known I'd have taken things slower.”  
“You shouldn't have to, though.”  
“Well that's like saying you shouldn't have understood when we bumped into each other at the memorial and I practically ran off with another man.”  
I laugh. “That's true. I did wonder about the quick getaway.”  
“Whatever you're comfortable with is just fine, okay? If you want to talk about her I'm happy to just listen and if you don't then I understand. Or we could just make out for a bit longer.”  
I lean in and kiss her gently, resting my hand on her neck. “I don't know what I did to deserve your patience, Olivia. Thank you.”  
This time I kiss her soundly, leaving no room for doubt about my desire for her even if I'm not in the right place to act upon it yet.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I groan and stretch out, immediately realising I'm not in my own bed when my feet hit the end. The warm body pressed against me is another clue that this isn't my bedroom, there's also a distinctly feminine scent about it, and the sun hitting me right between the eyes is far too bright. The scent is familiar and oddly enough so is the smaller body curled into me, with its even breath warming my neck.

Which is why I'm not worried and can enjoy being in bed with Olivia, fully clothed. We talked until after 3am, kissed so much my lips are bruised, and then decided it was best if I just stayed until morning. Long after she was cuddled tight in my arms beneath the covers we were still talking and kissing, it felt a bit like we were teenagers fumbling in our sleeping bags and trying not to get caught. If I remember correctly she fell asleep first, I was expecting a response and looked down to find her eyes closed, her lips curled in a little half smile. The sun was just exhaling its first hints of light then, which would explain why my eyes feel full of sand and like I haven't slept a wink.

My brain feels incredibly rested, though. I only hope the light shed on our conversations in the dark doesn't frighten her away. She knows all about my past, about my family and childhood, all of it. It's strange but I can already see how well she'd fit into family gatherings; mum, Sarah, and Emma will adore her just as I do. I literally don't know how we get from here to there, and while I understand in most relationships this is the fun part it's currently a path I'd like to traverse as quickly as possible, fraught with anxiety and guilt. Cora would want me to move on, she'd want me to be happy and loved, I know that on an intellectual level but wrapping my heart around it is going to take a little longer. She was the love of my life, how can I let her go so easily and let myself fall again if I truly believed there was only one woman for me?

I will fall in love with Olivia if I allow myself, I can already feel the pull of it and the beckoning of all those addictive hormones surging and leaving me in the euphoria that only comes from being loved and in love. That in itself is almost a foreign concept, something Cora and I never had the opportunity to revel in. She spent so much of her time sick and in hospital that it was always tainted by the undercurrent of imminent threat to her life, so that any time I really let myself drown in the depths of my feelings for her I was instead suffocated by the idea that I could – and almost inevitably would, even if I denied it until the end – lose her forever.

I barely got a good look around when we came into the bedroom last night so now I get the first opportunity to check out at least one side, where her wall is adorned with family photographs and a huge memo board holding so many random paper items I spend a few seconds trying to work out how they don't all flutter down to the floor. I can make out a number of ticket stubs, small thank you cards, business cards, a wedding place card, and the rest is a bit of a blur with morning eyes and no glasses. Beside that there are drawers, topped with a large jewellery box – which makes me wonder, because she doesn't wear a lot of jewellery – an oil diffuser, a mirror propped against the wall and surrounded by tiny fairy lights, and a haphazard stack of books that looks like it might topple over if I walked too close to it. The bedside lamp I didn't see last night actually makes me a little jealous – it's like an open book with its pages fanned out and the light in the middle. I can't see whether it's an actual book but I intend to do so before I have to leave, I need one of those.

The snuggly form in my arms begins to stir and I let my arms hold her a little tighter in the hope she sleeps a little longer, because frankly I'm not ready to have any of those conversations in the daylight. She hums and slowly turns her head back and forth, rubbing her face against my neck.   
“Good morning,” she whispers, as though like me she's afraid to shatter the comfortable silence.  
“Morning.” I kiss her forehead. “Go back to sleep.”  
“Okay.” She smiles and tugs my chin down to kiss my lips. “I'm glad you stayed, Tom.”  
“Me too.” We lay in silence for a few seconds, and then she bolts upright.  
“Ow, fuck!” She folds forward and clutches at her head, and my hand pats around the searing pain in my cheek, checking for blood when I pull it away. She's hit me so hard on the way up there are spots in my vision when I sit up to check on her.   
“Are you all right?”  
“Yeah.” A hiss of pain escapes when she looks at me, and I'm not sure if its in sympathy or related to the red patch above her eyebrow that might be swelling even as I watch. As her hand comes toward me its an effort not to recoil. “Oh, Tom, your cheek! Is it bad? I'll get you some ice.”  
“Relax, darling. It's fine.” I can't help but start laughing at the two of us clutching our faces. “What the hell was that about?”  
“I just wanted to get my phone, I haven't heard from Jonah since we left the pub.”  
Her erratic chuckles turn into fits of giggles by the time she fetches it from the nightstand, and then she's out of breath from laughter. It's the kind of joyous hysterics I couldn't ignore if I tried, more infectious than someone yawning in a circle of people. Before she actually gets around to checking her phone my eyes are blurry and my sides have joined in with my aching cheek.

It's a moment of pure, utterly untainted joy, the likes of which I haven't had since... I honestly can't recall. I know this ride well, though, even if I've not reached quite this high a peak before. There'll be a fraction of a second where I'm weightless, flying without a care, and shortly the drop will come. The sickening rise of my stomach into my throat as I sink toward the ground, the grip of guilt that I'd have that kind of light when I swore I'd never be happy without her.

While I wait for it I'm vaguely aware of Olivia chirping away about Jonah being over the moon about his evening, that he sent her a text last night but she was too involved in our conversation to notice. And I watch her, reading a series of messages with such fondness in her voice and a beaming smile on her face like a proud mother. The sun behind her is igniting the scarlet threads in her hair and a dimple I've only noticed just now suddenly has me captivated and staring at her cheek when she turns to look at me. She cocks her head to the side and frowns just enough that a tiny crease appears between her brows, but her lips are set in their grin and she quickly blushes and lowers her bright eyes.

I lean in and crash our lips together, her squeak of surprise quickly giving way to her tongue lapping at my bottom lip. There are moments when we're together that I wonder if we should just remain friends, I feel so comfortable and content in her presence and she deserves a man who is unwavering in his desire. God, but when I kiss her she feels like the first day in Autumn when the air turns cool enough to get the fire going, or a day of unexpected sun in the middle of winter. I never want it to end.  
“So he's okay?” I ask eventually, my hand still cupping her cheek and our foreheads pressed together.  
“Yes. Are you sure your cheek is all right? I don't want to be responsible for stopping your acting career before its resurgence.” She giggles behind her hand.  
“Your feigned concern is noted, and it's fine, thank you.” I glance at my watch and sigh. “I have to get going.”  
“Can I offer you some breakfast?”  
“You could walk with me to the station and we can get coffee on the way?”  
“Perfect.” She leaps up and heads for the bathroom. “Give me five minutes.”

Wishing I'd brought a change of clothes I head for the living room where I left my shoes, passing another room on the way that draws me right in. The walls are the only surface not adorned with brightly coloured objects of all sorts of weird and wonderful purpose, and the light that streams into this room is completely unhindered. It's larger than her bedroom, probably what was intended as the main bedroom, but it's clearly used instead as a study. Her desk is surprisingly neat, but it also has three piles of books and paperwork that probably the false impression of organised chaos, her chair simple and not at all comfortable-looking. Beside the window, though, is an armchair that looks like it might swallow her small frame, and it's draped with a throw that looks so soft I have to feel it for myself.

It's only when I turn to leave – upon hearing her exit the bathroom – that the bookshelves catch my eye. Some are partially obscured by the open door, but an entire corner of the room that includes the space over the door frame is filled with books from floor to ceiling. My eyes scan the spines, finding a few familiar ones and wondering what sort of system they're organised by, when she appears in the doorway.  
“Wow. This is incredible.”  
“Thanks.” She chuckles. “I'd have more but it's difficult to justify when you have access to the London Library. Also I don't have the space.”  
“Um... I have to ask, though...”  
“You're going to ask me if they're sorted by author, dewey decimal, something else?”  
I nod.  
“No, they're not. Every time I got a new book I had to rearrange shelves because some of them are so narrow, so now they're just scattered at random. I have fiction and non-fiction separated and my dictionaries are on my desk, but otherwise it's a total free for all.”  
She seems quite pleased at my horror.   
“How do you find anything?” my voice breaks like a pre-pubescent boy.  
“I just sort of remember what the spine looks like and look for it, usually I remember the general area where I put it away.”  
I reach out and take one of her hands in mine, giving her my sincerest look as I clear my throat. “Olivia, I'm so sorry. I don't think this is going to work out after all.”  
Olivia narrows her eyes. “Are you sure you were an actor?”   
I feign offence as she laughs and walks out of the room. Seriously, though, how can anyone have their books placed so willy-nilly? What if there's an emergency and she can only take two or three, how will she find her favourites?

The crisp breeze on the walk to the station cuts right through my clothing, but Olivia's hand that slips comfortably into mine is warm from holding her coffee. We talk mostly about the people that pass us by, the obvious walks of shame – some complete with stilettos in hand – and the early risers out for their Saturday morning run. I'm happy to forego mine today, especially for the lingering kiss on the platform that takes me so far away from myself that I almost don't hear the approaching train.

I'm still feeling uncomfortable about the bookshelves when I arrive home, so much so that I immediately go to my own wall of books and breathe a sigh of relief. It's only then, as I'm smiling to myself about the slightly crazy woman who slept in my arms, that I realise the kick of guilt I was waiting for earlier hasn't happened. My fingers instinctually go to the pendant on my chest, and then search around my bare neck for the cord, tear off my shirt and expect it to tumble out. I even remove my pants and shoes to be sure it's not there, and then I check my satchel. In a last effort I pull my clothing back on and trace my steps back to the station in search of it. Twice.

“No!” The empty house merely echoes back my voice as I slump heavily into the couch, the fingers of each hand pressed together until they turn white. I'm sure it was there this morning, I know with absolute certainty it was resting on my skin when I went to sleep, but I would have noticed if I didn't have it between then and leaving Olivia's flat – I touch it constantly.

I stand and start to pace, my mind is running so fast with ridiculous ideas that I can feel my heart racing and skipping the occasional beat, my skin is clammy and my forehead beading with sweat. I truly feel like I might die, and not just because I don't think I can live with myself if I've lost the necklace, or because I honestly can't survive without it's reminder, but I really can feel my heart beating behind my eyes and it won't slow down. As I pick up the phone to call someone – goodness knows who, do the police help with this sort of thing? I'd always have called Luke before, he has a solution for every possible problem – there's a missed call from Olivia, and without considering the consequences I tap the little phone beside her name.

When she answers her voice is almost drowned out by the blood thundering through my ears and my breath rushing in and out.   
“Hey, I know you're busy today...” she pauses. “Tom? Is everything all right?”  
“I don't know. I...” I can only imagine how ridiculous it will sound, losing my mind over something so small. “I think...”  
“I found your necklace on my pillow, it must have come unfastened while you were asleep. I know how important it is to you, would you like me to bring it over?”  
“Oh, god. Thank god.” My legs just sort of buckle and I'm fortunate that I've stopped pacing right in front of the couch, then I'm rubbing at the creases in my forehead, trying to work out a window of time to retrieve it. “Um...”   
“I don't have anything on today, so whatever makes it easiest for you just name it.”  
I blow out a long breath, barely able to believe I'm about to say the words. “Just keep it safe for me and we'll work something out, otherwise I'll get it on Monday.”  
There's a pause and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Okay. If you need it earlier you know where I am. I'll let you go, have a great day.”  
“Olivia?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Just... don't put it with the books.”  
Her hearty laugh rings in my head the rest of the day.

 


	9. The Good Soldier

_**Olivia** _

The sound of smooching in our office is foreign and unnerving, especially when I thought I was the only one here.  
"Get a room," I grumble loudly.  
"Beautiful morning, Liv," Caleb calls back. "I'll see you tomorrow?" he says quietly.  
More smooching, then the click of the door closing before Jonah comes in to view.  
"Well good morning to you, too," I say with a smile. "And here I thought Caleb had just stopped in to... hold on." I point an accusatory finger at him as he turns beet red. "Why is Caleb walking you to work when you only saw him last night?"  
The idea that Jonah would allow his morning routine to be disrupted -- especially by my perpetually-late brother -- just doesn't seem right, but then apparently my brain is a little slow to catch on this morning.  
"He was on his way home."  
"Home from whe... oh my god. You... and he spent the night?"  
"We had sex. And he spent the night, yes. And then -"  
"Lemme stop you there." I raise one hand and put the other over my eyes as though that will stop the images already burning themselves into my brain. When I lower it Jonah is smiling like the cat that got the... yeah. I don't want to finish that thought either.   
I take a sip of water and return to the paragraph I was writing because if it were anyone else I'd want all the details, but Caleb is my big brother. The fewer details the better.  
"How's Tom?" Jonah asks.  
"Good, yeah. He's good, he was on the train. We talked."  
"About sex?"  
"No, honey. People don't usually talk about sex on the tube, especially when it's that full. We actually talked about broccoli."  
"That's weird."  
He's not wrong. It was weird. Sex has become our horny elephant in the room, the one we don't talk about. It stands in our path if one of us tries to walk the other home and trumpets loudly if a kiss even looks like getting heated. Also in my head it wears a Borat-style fluorescent yellow mankini, so there are inappropriate giggles every time I think about it. I've named him George.  
"It will just take some time, he'll let me know when he's ready. Hell, I've gone without for this long, what's a few more weeks?"    
"How long has it been?"    
Longer than I'd care to calculate. "Don't you have work to do?"    
He blanches and lowers his head, moving quickly toward his desk before turning back to see the so-exaggerated-it-hurts smile on my lips.  

In the month since we spent the night together Tom and I have only managed another three dates -- he was away for ten days and our weekends have hardly aligned since his return -- with each one ending more awkwardly than the one before. I understand his hesitation, but where we used to talk for hours it's like the flow has been interrupted with submerged hazards, requiring more careful guidance. He frequently opens his mouth to speak and then draws his breath back to retract it, afraid he'll cause offence or embarrassment.     
I just want to go back to the way it was before, when we could talk about anything, even if that means being friends for a while longer.   
Over the next two weeks it certainly appears that's where we're heading. We talk on the train every morning and then part ways, with Tom working until late each night to prepare for the opening of the play.     
"Would you come to opening night?" he asks one morning. "It would mean a lot to me if you were there."    
"Of course! I'd love to."    
"I have plenty of tickets if you'd like to bring the love birds," he says with a laugh.     
Jonah and Caleb are deep in honeymoon phase, complete with daily phone calls that I now leave the office for after feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic the first couple of times. It's so strange to hear Jonah speak that way, more so than witnessing their physical affection.     
"Thank you, they'll be thrilled."    
"I actually have a late start today, maybe we could get coffee and talk?"    
"Sure."

We sit inside and watch the stream of people as they're pumped around the heart of London, jostled and humming with the sound of a thousand voices talking into phones.     
"Remember the film I was telling you about? Marvel asked me to return for the third installment and I turned it down?"    
I nod and he sets a heavy yellow envelope on the table between us.     
"The script. I started reading it late last night and couldn't put it down. They have a fantastic director, some brilliant new ideas."    
"You've changed your mind," I state with a smile.  
"I think I have. I still need to speak with them but I assume they still want me if they sent this over. I'm not sure I want to do more than this one but I feel like I owe it to Loki to finish it."    
"That is such great news, Tom."    
"There is a catch, though. I'll be away for three months."    
My stomach sinks. "I imagine that will be a shock to the system when you haven't done it for a while."    
"Hardly ideal for a new relationship, either."    
"Maybe we should just... put it all on hold for now, try again when you come back. I mean we've barely seen each other recently, we'd just be getting back into things and you'd be leaving." I hardly believe the words are coming from my mouth, and from Tom's expression he's rather struck by them, too.    
"Mm." He nods, and there's no more conversation for a long time. I've almost reached the bottom of my mug before he speaks again.     
"I think I owe you an apology, I should have been more cautious."    
"About what?"    
"Getting involved, I suppose. I didn't feel ready but everyone was telling me I should get back in the game and I felt such a connection to you... perhaps I should have waited."    
"I knew you wanted to take things slowly but I didn't realise you felt so pressured."    
"Please don't misunderstand, Olivia. I think you're amazing and I so enjoy spending time with you, you're beautiful and smart and easy to talk to, and you know I'm attracted to you... I thought there would never be a perfect time, you know? That I wouldn't get the lightning bolt telling me that this was the time and this was the woman, that the only way to know if I'd ever be able to be with anyone again was to jump in and find out. I was terrified, and I didn't want to hurt anyone. Including myself."    
"Are you saying you miscalculated?"    
"I'm saying I don't want to risk hurting you when I'm not sure. Because I truly care for you and I don't know if I will ever be ready. You deserve better."    
"I understand, though. I'm okay with taking things as slow as you want to go, I truly mean that."    
He reaches across the table and takes my hand, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. "I'll see you at opening night, then?"    
"Of course. I wouldn't miss it."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I'm not coming."    
On the other end of the phone, Caleb laughs.    
"I mean it." I jam the phone between my jaw and shoulder, holding up one dress and then another in front of my body before tossing them both on the bed. "The shop assistant flattered me and told me I needed to show off my legs more, and now I've got a 300 pound dress that makes me look like a tart. I can't go out in public like this."    
"Why did you buy it, then?"    
"I told you, she flattered me and I got all flustered. Apparently all it takes is saying I have great legs and I'll listen to anything. I look like I wrapped an expensive hand towel around myself."      
I know lots of women love shopping, and some others claim to hate it, I'm somewhere in the middle. I can shop for t-shirts until closing time and if a pair of sneakers catch my eye I have to have them immediately, but I refuse to go shopping for dresses. Every dress I own was purchased by my mother, usually on what I call an ambush shop -- she asks me to help her with something and we end up in a dress shop. As expected, having to find something to wear to Tom's play I was completely out of my depth and I let the sales assistant at the closest boutique to the office talk me into something that obviously isn't my style. It's clear to me now that the dim lighting in their fitting rooms wasn't an accident.   
"Liv, listen to me. Find something you're comfortable in, put it on, and get over here."    
And he hangs up. 

Half an hour later I've tried and eliminated every article of clothing in my wardrobe that might conceivably be fitting for such an occasion, and I am officially late. It's time to accept my fate -- skip it altogether, or wear the dress. The longer I look at it the less convinced I am that it was supposed to be a dress, perhaps it was intended as just a skirt or top, which would explain the lack of length and sleeves.   
While I'm rifling through one last time and hoping for a miraculous stumble into Narnia I see the black protective bag hiding at the back and pull it out, unzipping it carefully.  
Everyone has that one thing -- their 'I'll know I've made it when I can ____' -- and as an avid Sex and the City fan at the time mine was very Carrie inspired and involved clothing. When I landed my first permanent position at the library after finishing college I did that thing -- I bought a 1980s Chanel cocktail dress and started an obsession with vintage designer wear. I have ten now from all the classics, some dating back to the sixties -- Dior, Valentino, Oscar de la Renta, and I've added to it with some Manolos and Jimmy Choos that will never go out of style -- but I've never worn a single one. In general they garner such a reaction that I'm not brave enough to be seen in public, because it would draw attention.   
I smile and pull out the Chanel, hanging it in front of my closet. It's navy and white with a wide grossgrain belt and delicate layers on top of the plain navy skirt, and when I tried it on I felt like it was made for me. Now I have a real choice -- be noticed because my dress is so short I could make a political statement on the crease between my ass and thigh, or be slightly less noticed in an absolute classic.   
After walking nervously around the house for ten minutes in my bright red pumps to be sure I won't break an ankle, I'm pulling up in a cab outside Jonah's apartment and waiting patiently in the back seat, because no amount of money could make me get out when I don't have to.

"Oh my god," Caleb says as he slides in beside me. "Tom is gonna jizz in his pants."    
It's only then I notice they're both wearing summer weight suits with their shirt necks open in different shades of blue, their hands clasped between them and thumbs rubbing each other. Like the prom dates they both deserved. It's about bloody time.   
As we approach the theatre Jonah reaches over and squeezes my shoulder.     
"Stop fussing, Liv. You look gorgeous."    
I gently tug the band up under my arms and across my chest one last time.     
"You two will cover me if my boobs fall out, right?" I suppose a woman who buys dresses willingly and on regular occasion would have thought to purchase a strapless bra along with the original dress, but I've avoided owning one thus far and it didn't even occur to me until I put it on. Not that they're big enough to worry about support, it's more the security of having my nipples covered that I'm after.     
"I thought you said it was a small theatre?" Jonah asks shakily.    
"Um, Liv?" Caleb is gesturing out the window as we pass the Donmar, and there are people packed onto the street at the main entrance, including a strobe of photographers.    
"Shit." I pull out my phone and text Tom.    
_[I'm sorry to bother you at the worst possible time, but we weren't expecting so many people. Is there a side entrance?]_

Five minutes later he meets us around the corner, opening the cab door as we pull up to the curb.    
"Sorry, I didn't think. We weren't expecting paps, either." He holds his hand out for me, while I attempt a graceful shimmy out of the seat without showing the world my underpants. Once I'm upright his lips graze my cheek ever-so-lightly, his warm breath on my ear. "I'm so glad you're here, you look beautiful."    
"Thanks," I mumble, smoothing down a stray hair as he ushers us inside. Jonah and Caleb fall easily into step behind us, carrying on their own whispered conversation.   
"Who are the paps for?" I ask.     
"Uh..." Tom rubs the back of his neck and shakes his head the way he does when he's embarrassed. "Me, actually. Marvel decided they'd make the announcement today, of all days. I should have warned you, I forgot about the potential problem with a crowd of people. I mean, it's not a problem, just that it... you know."    
"I don't cope with crowds, it's okay to say it," Jonah pipes up. "I can if I have to, but then I need some space."    
Tom chuckles. "And I'd much prefer you enjoyed the show, so avoiding the crowd was the least I could do. Why don't I take you straight to your seats, that way we can skip the foyer as well."    
"Just point us in the right direction, you must be busy."    
He waves away my concern and leads us to our seats in the third row, kissing my cheek again as his hand lingers on my waist. "I'd love to see you afterward, if it's not too much? We'll be having drinks in the foyer and there are a couple of people I'd like you to meet."    
"Of course."    
This time I hear his sharp inhale before he pulls away with a smile, thanking Jonah and Caleb again before he disappears.   
"I don't know whether to be disgustingly happy that he's so smitten with you, or threatening his life for looking at my sister like he wants to devour her," Caleb says in my ear right before the lights go down. 

I knew what to expect from discussing the interpretation with Tom, but the way they've balanced the original text with modern production is pure genius, and I can't wait to share my thoughts with him.  
Unfortunately that proves a little more difficult than we'd planned.   
Jonah doesn't cope long with the amount of people squeezed into the foyer so he and Caleb quickly call it a night. Tom is flitting from one conversation to the next, having his picture taken with so many people it makes my head spin, all the while tossing me apologetic glances and smiles. I find myself engaged in my own conversation with a theatre blogger, and when I look around for Tom again I realise most of the people have dispersed and his usually easy to locate form is nowhere to be seen.    
"You're here with Tom Hiddleston, right? Things are certainly about to get interesting for you!"    
"Yeah, I mean he invited me. We're friends."    
"Right, of course," she says, clearly unconvinced. "The world is so excited about Loki's return. It's quite a risk he's taking, throwing himself back into a huge role after so much time out of the game. He did have a reputation for being fearless with his role choices, though. Until he wasn't."    
"It wasn't the roles that prompted the break, though," I say defensively before I can stop myself.     
"No? He never really said what happened, just kind of faded away. Have you known him long?"    
"No." I smile, because I quite like her and our conversation before Tom was interesting, but there's no way I'm giving her the dirt she really wants.     
"You are rocking that dress by the way, I love it."    
"Thank you. I'm usually a jeans and sneakers kind of girl, so... thanks." The wise woman I purchased it from told me 'If you're gonna wear Chanel, do it with pride. Own it.' That's probably why it resides in my closet.     
"I have to get going, what was your name again?"    
"Olivia. Thanks for the chat."    
"It was my pleasure, Olivia. Enjoy the rest of your night."  
I wait while more people leave, then I wait another half an hour while my texts go unanswered, and when the theatre is all but empty I call a cab. Not exactly the end to the night I was hoping for, but I did suggest we put things on hold.

As soon as I'm inside my apartment I kick off my shoes and pour the last glass from a bottle of wine, sinking into the couch while I pluck the pins from my hair. Only after I've finished the glass and read a few chapters of a new book Tom gave me do I get a reply to my text:    
_[So sorry, we went to the pub across the street. I couldn't see you so thought you'd already gone. Talk tomorrow?]_  
For the first time since we exchanged numbers there's no stirring of butterflies in my stomach at his text, no urgent desire to respond. I'm too drained to work out whether that has to do with Tom or my general mood; I have no claim to his time and no right to feel annoyed that we missed each other, it was simply a misunderstanding. I did explicitly state that I was okay with taking things as slowly as he needs, so if that means we are essentially just friends who talk on the tube I have no cause to feel disheartened or rejected if he doesn't check in with me before having a drink with his mates. So why do I feel just a little pushed aside and hurt?     
_[You've earned a celebration, the play was fantastic. Give me a call when you're free.]_

There are certain times in life, when you're British, that just call for a good strong cuppa tea. Since I haven't yet replaced the bottle of Scotch Tom and I finished and I don't fancy going out, this is one of those times. I take it to the open window and sip it in the dark, the light breeze carrying a promise of summer and the distorted wail of distant sirens.  
I've gone all in with Tom, not that I've ever held back before. I'm not the kind of woman who is asked out regularly because I don't stand out and if I'm honest I deliberately keep it that way, I hate the idea of people noticing me or looking at me. That could be because I'm prone to being tongue tied when I'm nervous and stumbling over things when I walk, I much prefer writing to speaking because at the slightest hint of pressure or stress my tongue turns to jelly and my brain to a kindergarten dictionary that spits out words in random order and stores away all of the intelligent ones like a bird hiding away shiny treasures.   
With Tom none of that matters. I'm less nervous with him than I would normally be -- which is interesting, given my last date was years ago -- and my nonsensical utterances only make him smile or laugh, which is my favourite thing to do. He doesn't give his smiles easily, I don't think. Not the genuine expressions of joy that occasionally brighten my morning. The polite, well-mannered smile is sometimes a permanent feature, like it was this evening, but it might as well be a deep-creased frown if you've been blessed with the other kind.   
Just now I'm realising that we won't be seeing so much of each other until he comes back from filming in The States, and that is many months away. I suggested it out of frustration, so many nights I've cried out his name while touching myself, drawn blood from my lip in anticipation of our first time together, imagined how perfect it would be just to have his weight on top of me and his skin on mine and squeezed my thighs together like I'm doing now, and it isn't that I'm mad at him for taking too long... I don't trust myself. I don't want to pressure him and I've hidden my reactions from him so he doesn't see the effect he has on me, but damn if my heart doesn't thunder in my ears and my entire body isn't set alight when he's next to me.   
I made it sound like I wanted to back off for a while but that couldn't be further from the truth; I want to press my lips to his and never let them part, spend every spare second hearing about his day and his family and his childhood. I want to fall in love, and I want to fall in love with Tom.

But first I'm going to have to learn some patience.


	10. Austerlitz

_**Tom** _

I'm still buzzing with the unique excitement that only comes from a successful opening night, and perhaps a little alcohol. That's the only way I can explain my actions; I don't do impulsive or behave without thorough consideration. Not any more.

The alcohol is the only reason I didn't disappear in a mood right after I realised I'd stood up not only Olivia but my family and friends. I'm furious that we had invited media to cover the opening and all they wanted to talk about was Loki despite my attempts to redirect them to our actors and the production I'm so proud of. Apparently the announcement about Thor Ragnarok was brought forward because it was about to be leaked, but I am entirely out of practice and wasn't expecting to be interviewed by anyone. Mum, Dad, Sarah, and Emma gave me a wave and gestured to say they'd call me tomorrow; and I kept an eye on Olivia as best I could so when she wasn't there I assumed, with utter disappointment, that she'd gone. I'm exhausted, my cheeks hurt from smiling all evening, and as the bubbles of adrenaline wear off I'm getting crankier by the minute.

And yet here I am. When we arrived at my station I remained in my seat, watching the world outside grow darker and the suburbs pass by as we coasted rhythmically away from the city. I only alighted when we pulled in to another familiar, less frequented station, and proceeded immediately to her street, away from the sirens blaring away in the distance. Olivia's street. Olivia's building.

Her lights are off, the windows all dark inside. She likes the dark, she thinks better without artificial light. It's late, though -- despite what everyone tried to tell me about the evening being far too young for me to be leaving -- and she's more likely already sleeping. I didn't plan for that.

I had a teacher once who's favourite saying was 'if you fail to plan, you plan to fail', and if I needed an unromantic thought to really hammer home the truth that this was a ridiculous idea, I've just had it.

I pull out my phone and tap out a text, figuring I'll give it ten minutes and if she doesn't answer I'll go home to my bed like I should have done in the first place. What am I here for anyway? Reassurance that I didn't ruin everything by taking on a new film? Confirmation that she still has feelings for me even after our conversation gave me the impression she was done? Or did I simply enjoy her warmth so much last time that I want it again, knowing that its selfish to expect her to wait until I'm ready for the relationship to progress but also ask that she share her bed with me when I'm lonely?

Is that all this is? I don't believe that for a second, and I hope she knows I'm not just using her to cure my need for comfort and warmth. I couldn't take my eyes off of her tonight, and it wasn't so much the way she was dressed but the confidence that seemed to go along with it. Ordinarily I'm the first to agree women should wear whatever they're comfortable in and I adore her usual outfits, but the feminine sexuality just radiated from her tonight with the soft layers across her chest and the sway of her hips when she walked. Even her bare neck was driving me crazy, enough that I had to ask an interviewer to repeat a simple question twice because I was studying the loose strands that framed her face and brushed the scoop of her clavicle when she turned to smile at me. People must surely have noticed my body always pointed toward her, the hungry stare I had to focus on tearing away from her direction every time I was spoken to. And don't even start me on the sculpt of her legs in those heels, I feel in the current climate I shouldn't even think that kind of thought, but she's ignited something in me and I can't seem to stop it.

After suggesting we back things off I was so surprised by the way she was looking at me tonight I assumed I was reading too much into it. When we were leaving and she was gone the disappointment was like a lead weight dropping into the pit of my stomach and now I feel like a complete knob for not checking my phone until we were settled in with drinks.

[Are you awake?] Short and right to the point, as a good text should be. I'm so confident she won't reply that I'm already half way back down the street when she does. [Yes. What's up?] How does one say 'I'm outside your apartment' without coming across as a stalker? I chuckle to myself, fully aware that I've completely objectified her body this evening and it's likely her attire has influenced my decision to turn up at her door, because I've seen something I didn't before -- perhaps I saw some of her inner confidence on the outside. Might as well just be honest, if she's about to find out I'm nothing but a sex-driven, red-blooded Neanderthal then so be it.  
"Is everything ok?" she answers after the first ring, not sounding at all like I woke her.  
"Yes, I just wanted to talk to you and apologise for earlier. Actually, the thing is... I'm outside your apartment. See I couldn't stop thinking about you and once I got on the Tube I just... kept going. We can just talk on the phone if you like, no pressure."  
Beneath her soft laugh I hear the rustle of clothing. "Just come up, Tom."

When she opens the door I'm momentarily surprised to find she's still wearing that lovely little dress, although her hair has fallen down over her shoulders and her feet are bare. There are so many words in my head, so much I want to tell her, but my mouth is already occupied, kissing her hard as my fingers thread into her silky hair and she stands on her toes to press against my lips. As the kiss goes on all thought leaves me and my body takes over, desperate to feel her all around me at once, lifting her arms to wrap tight around my shoulders and gliding my hands down her sides to her hips.

I barely feel myself bend down and take her thighs, hoisting her up to me without breaking the kiss. Her breath is warm on my face and I feel her holding back, toying with the hair at the back of my neck but keeping her body stiff and passive. As my lips move to her jaw I make my way toward the bedroom and am jolted almost off balance when I trip on one of her shoes. Olivia's eyes meet mine as she breaks into a joyful laugh, holding tighter to my shoulders as I brace her against the wall and nip playfully at her neck.

That scent never gets old. I love that she wears the same perfume every day, it's so familiar I could recognise her on scent alone, and she tastes even better. Her head falls back against the wall, her lips parted as a soft whimper escapes on her breath. She can surely feel my arousal as I roll my hips against her, and for a long moment I stare into her eyes, still unable to find the right words.  
Her fingers trace my mouth and I suck and release one, watching her teeth catch her lip.  
"Are you sure?" she whispers, as though afraid too much volume will break the spell.  
"Yes."  
She smiles and wraps her legs around to pull me against her, and a flurry of activity follows as all barriers are unbuckled, unfasted, or pushed aside.

I kiss her deep and slow as we find our way together, gasps and moans no longer held back as our bodies join and undulate against the wall. No more thoughts, no more talk, just the glorious sensation of being inside her.

The first time her phone rings it barely registers, we're so lost in each other. The second time she's crying out into my neck. The third our faces are crushed together, open mouths breathing each other in, and then the groan that comes out of her isn't one of pleasure. She turns her head toward the bedroom and sighs as I set her down on her feet, smoothing her skirt back down.

I lean on my forearm against the wall, catching my breath while I try not to eavesdrop on her conversation. She's only metres away, though, and as I refasten my trousers I can tell we're not getting back at it anytime soon. She looks up when I enter the room and smiles apologetically, patting the bed beside where she's sitting.  
"All right, take a breath. He'll be... yeah, I know... the sirens... Caleb. Stop and listen."  
My stomach drops but the longer I listen the more impressed I am with her calm but firm tone.  
"Can you handle this or do you need me to call a taxi?"  
She explains gently to Caleb, talking him through finding an app on Jonah's phone and releasing the tension in his shoulders if he'll accept a hug, while I sit beside her absolutely fascinated and in awe.  
"Hey Jonah... it's ok, he's gonna help you... let's do some belly breaths, huh?... yes you can, let's go..."

Olivia's voice is so relaxing, talking Jonah through some breathing and imagery about rain on the roof for so long I've closed my eyes and begun to fall asleep myself.  
"Caleb is going to take care of you now, OK? If you need me I'm right here, but you've got this. You're safe in your bed and everything is all right."

She turns and looks at me, stifling a giggle before she speaks into the phone again. "How's he doing?... they woke him up... well he was never great with stuff like that but since the bombing... if you need me just call, I don't mind. I love you both. Night."  
"You're an incredible woman, Olivia."  
She chortles. "Nah, I've just hung around so long I know what works for him. It's so great knowing Caleb is there, before if I couldn't talk to him on the phone I'd have to rush over there." Her fingers comb through my hair. "I'm sorry we were interrupted."  
"No need, I'm sure we could pick it back up again."

I look up at her and sigh, almost wishing I hadn't just taken her like that up against the wall. She deserves better than an impulse fuck without any foreplay.  
"Are you absolutely sure, Tom? Because until an hour ago..."  
"I couldn't stop thinking about you tonight. I wanted you to be there with me, share it with me. And I don't want to wait until I finish filming, I don't want to waste time. I may have taken that to the extreme." I laugh and move to the side of the bed, stretching my arm out for her to lay with me. "I'll make it up to you."  
"It isn't that I wasn't enjoying it, but perhaps some foreplay or at least a little warning? Your cock is huge, Thomas. Holy shit." She erupts into infectious giggles, the kind that make me want to tickle her bare skin until she fights back.

This time I take my time, properly undressing her and allowing her to do the same. When the time comes to remove my shirt I ease the cord from my neck and tuck it into the pocket, and then I make sure the foreplay continues until she begs me to stop. She gives that luscious body to me and it feels like heaven as she claws at my shoulders and cries out my name, curling into my arms when we're both spent. "I don't want to wait, either," she says softly, drawing patterns on my chest with the tip of her finger.  
"That's quite a relief, all things considered. I feel I'd owe you quite an apology if you did."  
"Are you always this funny after sex?" Her giggles are muffled as she kisses my chest.  
"Possibly. I don't remember."  
More giggles. "I like afterglow Tom, he's fun. I think I'll keep him around."  
"Oh, darling. I hope so." I kiss her lips and trace my fingers up and down her spine. "Did I tell you how absolutely stunning you were tonight? Not just your clothing, there was something different."  
"It's the Chanel effect," she says with a smile. "Can't fuck about in a dress like that."  
"Evidently you can."  
"Very funny, Tom. I'm glad you liked it." Her body presses against mine and she nuzzles into my neck with a sigh. "Thank you for trusting me."  
"Thank you for being so patient."  
"It was worth the wait, and I didn't have any other offers."

Later there will be sleep but that earns her much more tickling, followed by a little teasing and a second round just to be absolutely positive she's been sufficiently rewarded for her faith and patience. And maybe because the sky didn't fall in the first time, and I don't know if I will ever get enough of this angel, I'm secretly hoping for a third in the morning.

Guilt doesn't live here any more.


	11. Housekeeping

**Olivia**  
Warm, strong arms are holding me, pressing my body against a firm torso, our legs tangled together and my cheek on his bicep. Tom's scent surrounds me, all citrus and spice with a hint of sweet that curls my lips as I draw a deep breath. A sleepy groan rumbles beneath my fingertips where they play on his chest and he pulls me a little closer, kissing my forehead.  
"Good morning, Olivia," he says thickly.   
"Good morning again, Tom."  
There's barely any light and rain spatters on the window, but I know it's quite late because it was after 7 a.m. when we woke up the first time. A grin spreads across my face before I can stop it as I gently stretch my aching body, long neglected muscles crying from overuse and a dull throb between my thighs the evidence of not enough sleep but a whole lot of fun. For a while we just lie together and listen to the rain, neither of us feeling the need to fill the silence with words.   
Until my stomach begins rumbling with embarrassing volume.   
  
After breakfast and a shower Tom insists he has to go and return some calls and emails before heading to the theatre, but his drawn out kisses and the way he refuses to let go of my hands suggest otherwise.    
"Can I call you when we finish?"    
"Yes please." I stretch up on my toes to kiss him again. "You can come over if you like, I'll be here."    
He nods. "I won't let you down this time."    
"You've more than made up for that, don't worry about it."    
His warm lips cover mine again, his long fingers threading into my hair as his tongue probes my mouth. As soon as he pauses for breath I laugh.  
"Thomas, stop stalling."  
"It's raining."    
I hand him my spare umbrella.   
"I don't want to deal with Luke, he's going to want to talk about what I said to the media last night," he whines.  
"Put on your big boy pants, you got this."  
"Ok that's a lie, I really just want to get you naked and go back to bed."  
I press a hand against his chest, holding him at arm's length while he purses his lips toward me. "I know and I want that, too. Tonight. I promise. I'll be waiting."  
He waggles those mischievous eyebrows and kisses me one last time before he leaves, walking backward until he's out of sight and all I can see is my bright pink umbrella.  
At least there's no more doubt that we feel the same.  
  
The shift in routine seems so natural I doubt either of us notice until a month has passed. Dates have been replaced by overnight stays, with Tom usually arriving at either my place or his late at night and exhausted. Often I'm already in bed with a book or laptop, but sometimes I deliberately wait so that showering together is a time-saving exercise rather than purely my own lust for his naked body. Tonight happens to be one of those because we're meeting at his place, only he's running late and insisted I use the key he gave me.  
  
Now that I've done a little research and I know the films he was in and how his career was taking off his house is more modest than I'd expect but it has such warmth to it and there are touches of Tom everywhere, I couldn't imagine him living anywhere else. It's wall of books in the living room make a lovely welcoming feature, the paintings and posters holding personal significance and sparking many a conversation. There's a part of me, deep down, that itches to move a few books out of order just to screw with him, but I honestly think those beautiful baby blues might pop out of his head with the sheer stress. He still refuses to look at my shelves, and I caught him not long ago while I was getting ready for work re-arranging some of my fiction titles.  
"It's just one shelf," he said sheepishly.  
"That one shelf will turn into two, and before I know it you've reorganised my whole life."  
"You realise this means we can never live together."  
We both stopped at that, paused in time for a beat or two. Neither had considered that would ever happen until then, but would it? Were we really looking that far into the future now?  
  
I've turned on enough lights to get by but kept the house fairly dim while I wait for Tom, though I'm not sure why. I'm not entirely comfortable being here on my own, I feel like it's way too large and I don't belong in a bigger space than my little flat, but the 'paps' are all over him like rats following the Pied Piper now that he's confirmed to be playing Loki again, far more than I was prepared for. Tom is so outwardly affectionate -- and he's turned it up to eleven since we started sleeping together -- that I'm constantly looking around for people watching us and being extra cautious in public. I hate it, I hate my reluctance because I so love having our fingers laced together and the way he likes to just lean in and kiss me when the urge takes him, but I'm not ready to be 'Tom Hiddleston's girlfriend'. Which is stupid, because I suppose I am already that, just not in the tabloids. Yet. Everywhere we go I feel eyes on us and I'm constantly amazed that Tom doesn't seem to notice.   
  
I hear his key in the door and turn toward it as he comes through with slumped shoulders and messed hair that's obviously had fingers combed through it repeatedly.   
"Hello, darling." I try not to attribute the broad smile that lights up his face to seeing me, but it's a happy coincidence. "Why are you still wearing your coat?"  
"Oh." I laugh. "I only just arrived and I guess I was just waiting for you, lost in thought."  
He tugs it off my shoulders and then spins me to kiss my lips.   
"How was your day?"  
"Uh, good?" He sighs.  
"You just said good like it was a question. What's wrong?"  
"We worked out the schedule for Ragnarok today. I'm going to be in Australia for a bit over three months."  
Oh. I force a smile. "Well I hear it's beautiful over there. It will be coming into summer, so that's a bonus."  
"Yes, but I'll be gone for all that time. It's a hell of a way to ease back in. And what about the Donmar? What if I want to come back? What if I really can't do it anymore?"  
His eyes are wide and wild and he's gesturing his hands around so fast I almost laugh. I steer him toward the kitchen and fill the kettle, and then he takes over on autopilot, still worrying aloud about this and that and the weather and the media and what if I've moved on when he comes back...  
"You really think I'd do that?"  
"Well, I would never assume one way or --"  
"Seriously?!" I draw a deep breath and wrap my hand around the tea mug he hands me, lowering my voice. "Tom, I'm not about to move on with someone else. It's something we need to discuss, but I don't get involved like I have with you on a whim, so I certainly don't plan on doing it again any time soon. Are you planning on a fling while you're there? Would you have one if it were offered?"  
"Of course not!"    
"Exactly. Put that issue to bed."    
"Are you saying you'll wait for me? That you want to just pick up where we left off when I get back? Four months is an awfully long time."    
"They have phones and internet in Australia, I assume."  
"All right, point taken."  
"What's next? You're worried about whether you can still act?"  
"Yeah. I gave up because after... you know... I felt like I couldn't give a good performance any more. My heart wasn't in it, I was just shattered into a million pieces and needed something that didn't require emotion." He sips his tea and rakes a hand through his already ruffled hair.   
"I'm sure it will be fine, and it's Loki. You know Loki as well as you know yourself."  
"What if I don't? What if I don't know him as well as I used to?"  
"All right then, what if that happens? You'll work on it, call on people who've worked with you before, sort it out. Yeah?"  
"Mmm." He smiles thoughtfully. "I started seeing a therapist just before we started dating. She said something very similar."    
"Smart woman, you should listen to her."  
He laughs and nods.  
"Honestly, you'll be fantastic. You've never done anything by halves and I'm certain you're not about to start now."  
  
By the time his mug is empty he's far more relaxed and has stopped speaking so fast I can barely keep up. He leads me to the bathroom and starts the hot water, stripping off his clothes before reverently undressing me and kissing me as we're surrounded by steam. What begins with the water streaming over our bodies is finished between the sheets, our skin still damp and hearts racing as he takes me in his arms and presses his warmth against me. I fall asleep with his chest rising and falling beneath my ear, like the rise and collapse of gentle waves on an Australian beach.  
  
"Can I walk you to the station?" he asks the next morning.  
I blow out the air in my lungs. "The thing is, you're used to being photographed and while you don't love it, being a public figure is part of your life. I'm not used to it and I actively avoid it. No ones knows who I am, no one cares who I am. And I like it that way."  
"I wish I could shield you from all of that, but I can't."    
"I know, I just need more time. Let me get used to the idea before they start referring to me as your girlfriend."  
"Oh."    
"What?"  
"They already are."  
"Who?"  
"I don't know. Luke sent me a text this afternoon, it's a photo from the other day when we got coffee near your office."  
I groan and cover my face. I'm not prepared for this and I certainly wasn't at the time, if I remember correctly my shirt had Felix the Cat on it and my eyes had bags so large I'd be charged for additional luggage. We've been so cautious. I've been so cautious. We barely walked a block from my office and we weren't touching!  
"Darling, are you *not* my girlfriend?" he asks quietly with just the hint of a smile.  
"I suppose I am, but... I want to keep this between us."  
"I know. This is part of the reason I sort of went in to hiding for a while, moved a little further away. I couldn't bear the rumours and questions. It gets easier."  
  
All the way to work I can feel eyes on me, even though on an intellectual level I know they're not really there. They watch and judge and taunt, look away in disgust. I haven't felt this way since the days right after Will died, when Caleb was suddenly accused of forcing himself on him and causing the trauma that led him to take his own life. Of course they directed it at me in Caleb's absence and we always knew the stories were untrue, but the overnight shift from 'that weird chick who doesn't have any friends' to everyone knowing my name and apparently all of my family's dirty secrets was almost too much. Jonah never cared that he was completely invisible, that even though he was the closest friend I'd ever have he didn't count, and as I retreated further and further into my shell he was the only reason I occasionally poked my head out and kept a loose grip on reality.   
  
"Liv, it won't stop unless you answer it," Jonah says of the phone ringing in my hand.   
Technically it will, but I am paying this woman to work for me so I suppose I should speak with her.   
"Hi Chloe," I say as brightly as I can muster. Not that I don't love her, I just don't want to talk about it.  
"Something you want to tell me, Olivia? How about we meet for lunch?"  
"Sure. Our usual place?"  
  
When I arrive she's waiting for me, drinking sparkling water from a wine glass. Chloe is like the negative image of me, all bright colours and shiny jewels. She follows fashion trends, is a frequent flier with her beauty therapist and hair dresser, and always looks like she's just stepped out of a stylist's dressing room. Ordinarily people who look that way make me cringe because I feel inferior on first impression, but Chloe is kind of like the vintage dresses in my wardrobe -- she has the style of Chanel but the same worn-in comfort of my favourite sneakers. As she does with all of her clients she stands with her hands thrust forward to greet me, but instead of the usual cheek kisses she bestows upon me a familiar embrace.  
"How the hell are you?" she asks. Being among her most demanding clients for all the opposite reasons has apparently enamoured her toward me and she's among very few people I genuinely trust.   
"Life is pretty good, Chloe. And you?"  
"Well I'm great... except that a client I considered a friend neglected to tell me she was dating Britain's hottest hermit. You know I found out from the Daily Fail?"  
Everything inside me braces and suddenly the air feels too thick. "Not my name, though?"  
"No, you're still the mystery woman. I was thinking we should put your name out there, though. We don't have to give details or any indication of what you do, but if we don't give them something they'll just keep hounding. Until someone in some club says she knows you and you're a recovering something-a-holic, or that you have five illegitimate children with different men."  
"That would be interesting, given I don't actually have any children." I laugh.  
"Oh no, social services took them all away because of your snorting habit. They've got to be seen doing their job, you know?" She looks down at the menu and laughs. "Seriously, though. I think that's our best move. We could always fabricate an occupation, something that explains your office in London?"  
"There's no other way, is there?" I ask with a sigh.  
"I don't suppose you'd consider using this to your advantage? Think of the publicity?"  
I shake my head emphatically.  
"I know this isn't ideal for you, but if you're going to be together you're going to draw some attention. If it weren't for the announcement so recently you'd get away with it, but so many eyes are on him now. I have to warn you, the rumour is that he went into hiding after a breakdown, and the world is watching because they expect another one."  
"Fantastic."  
"I'm guessing you know the truth, though. And I should get to know Luke Windsor a little better?"  
"Let's just take this one step at a time, huh? He's about to leave the country until Christmas, who knows what might happen."  
The rest of our lunch is spent discussing the new book, which is due for release in the second quarter next year and not even submitted to my editor yet, and of course we get around to Tom while we're sharing a rich chocolate cheesecake for dessert. Outside the cafe she hugs and kisses me goodbye, her Louboutins clipping away on the pavement as her perfect silhouette disappears down the street. I feel buoyed by her optimism, confident that I already have someone looking out for me.   
  
That evening when Tom arrives it's almost midnight and as though he knows I'm already asleep he uses his key, sneaking quietly inside and into my bed. I wake up with a start to total darkness, flinching away from the warm body beside me.  
"Darling, it's me. It's Tom," he coos.  
"You scared me to death! I didn't realise I'd fallen asleep."  
"I'm sorry."  
"It's all right, you didn't mean to." I turn over to sit astride his hips as his hands glide beneath my t-shirt to hold me down against him, his long fingers stretching across the skin of my upper back.   
"The least I can do," he kisses the corners of my mouth and then my nose, "is make it up to you."  
He's tender but knows just how to bend and mould my body so that it sings, kisses me so thoroughly that my skin dances with shivers and goosebumps beneath a sheen of perspiration. I collapse like a rag doll onto his heaving chest, with the dopey kind of smile that only comes when the rest of your body is at once humming with pleasure and aching with exertion, and listen to his thundering heartbeat slowly descend. A long time later -- which doesn't feel at all long enough -- he gently lays me onto the pillow and wraps me in his arms.   
  
I asked how his day was but I was out cold before he answered, and the next thing I know the shower is running. It takes a few minutes for the adrenaline to settle even though it was only seconds before I remembered it was Tom. I've been alone in this apartment so long that hearing the crash of Pete my drunken upstairs neighbour stumbling around at 4 a.m. is less alarming to my brain than a beautiful, naked, and very much welcomed man in my shower. I've never really had the kind of relationship where this occurs with any regularity, and I suppose I wouldn't be in this position with Tom if he worked nine to five and we could freely go out for dinner. Perhaps I'm resisting because the kind of relationship we have is what I would associate with something more serious and long term, where 'I love you's have been exchanged and we can't bear to be apart for more than a day at a time. We're not there, yet. Are we?  
Thinking about it makes me suddenly unable to lie still, my chest feels tight and I find myself practising the same belly breaths I've talked Jonah through so often it's automatic. So I stop thinking and join him in the shower, all thought disappearing right down the drain as soon as his hands and lips are on me.


	12. When we were Free

**Tom**

Somehow Olivia and I have fallen into a routine I know I'm going to miss dearly when I'm away. There are days when I'm so certain I've made the right choice to return for Loki and then there are days like today I'm not so sure. Luke and I have been seeing a lot more of one another recently though and I find the familiarity is a comfort, more like reunited friends than a business relationship. I know I hurt him when I left acting to spend time with Cora, he doesn't think I made the wrong decision but I did leave him in a mess -- many separate messes, in fact -- and for the first month I didn't take calls from anyone but my family. He at least seems to have forgiven me, though.

"How are things with Olivia?" he asks.

We're sitting in the fifth row of an empty Donmar theatre while the cast arrive in a steady trickle through the stage door. It's eerily quiet when no one is on stage or in the audience, and it's become my favourite place of solitude. Often I sit right where Cora sat for Coriolanus and against all rational explanation it provides me some comfort to remember that she was here.   
It's also a good place for meetings with Luke, apparently.   
"She's great, so easy to talk to and can hold her own in an argument."   
"It's really good to see you smiling again."   
"It feels good. Things with her feel simple. Right."   
"I knew you'd fall in love again one day," he says with a smug grin. His words land on my shoulders with such force that I brace against the invisible weight pushing me down. He still reads me like a book, too. "Sorry, did I just jump the gun?"   
"No, I mean... a little."   
"Maybe you just don't see it."   
"I'll never... not like Cora. You don't get love like that twice."   
"Tom, I know you loved her but you can't compare every relationship to that. Why would you pass up an amazing woman like Olivia just because she's not Cora?"   
"It's not about comparing, I just know it won't happen like that again."  
"Because it can't, or you won't let it?"   
"It just won't." I shake my head and glance at my watch. "Did you want to discuss the closing night party next weekend?"   
Thankfully he goes with the change of subject without more than a passing frown. "Yeah. You're going together, right?"   
"Yes."   
"And she's happy to have her name published?"   
"Yes."   
"Mate, can I tell you something straight?" He waits for me to nod. "It's not fair on her, dragging her out of her comfort zone to take your relationship public if you're so determined not to completely fall for her. You're telling me you'll never love her like you loved Cora, but she has no idea you're holding back so much. I don't know why you wouldn't let it happen, whether you feel like you don't deserve it or you think it's neglecting Cora's memory, but I think you need to be up front about it."   
It's way too early for that conversation, isn't it? We're having a great time together and I care for her... I care deeply. It doesn't compare, though. And I don't know if I want it to. I made a promise to Cora, that she'd always be the only one.

Long after Luke leaves I feel uncomfortable, like all of my muscles have kind of seized up and I'm constantly aware of the tension I'm carrying around. It's like the weight he seemed to drop on my shoulders has settled there.   
"You've been edgy all day," Jo says just before the show begins. "Come out for a drink with us after." It's not so much a question as a friendly command, so I just nod in acceptance. Olivia declines my offer to join us, she's apparently already in her pajamas and engrossed in a book but encouraged me to have fun and she'd see me on the tube in the morning. Jo sets a glass of something deep burgundy in front of me, the first sip leaving a hint of liquorice on my tongue. When I look up to thank her my eyes fall on an old friend who immediately brings a smile to my face.   
"Hello, Lauren. It's so good to see you." She moves around the table to kiss my cheek and hug me in greeting.   
"You too, Tom."   
"You two know each other?" Jo asks.   
"Yeah, we worked together on The Deep Blue Sea. Tom is the reason I got in to all the cool parties at TIFF," Lauren says with a wink. "He does get invited to all the fun stuff."   
"Used to," I correct her.

Jo excuses herself to take a phone call, leaving Lauren and I a chance to catch up.   
"It's been a long time," she says. "Good to hear you're getting back in to acting."   
"I don't know about that, yet. I've signed on for one film, then we'll see. What about you, what are you up to these days?"   
"I run _'The Fourth Act'_ , it's a theatre blog focused mainly on London. I still work in production but I'm probably too choosy for my own good. I loved your work on this, by the way. I see a lot of you in Aiden, he's one to watch."   
"He certainly is, I'm really proud of the work he's put in. When did you see it?"   
"I was at opening night, but no one was getting near you!" she laughs. "I figured I could wait. I was planning on doing a more thorough write up with some short cast interviews, that's what I was discussing with Jo."   
"I'm so sorry, that was a bit of a disaster. I kept dodging questions and redirecting the focus to the play and the cast but they just weren't having it." I chuckle and shake my head to clear away the memory. "We have a handful of tickets left for the last show if you're interested, there's a bit of a party afterwards."   
"I'd love to take you up on that, but I'm already coming." She pulls her phone from her purse and checks the screen. "I have to get going, I was on the way out when I bumped into Johanna."   
I wrap my arms around her and she squeezes me tight before stepping away, resting her hands on my arms.   
"I know I'm a couple of years too late, but I'm really sorry about Cora. So sad."   
"Yeah, I... thank you."

Lauren and I had one of those rare friendships where adding casual sex to the mix didn't make it weird. We hit it off pretty quickly after meeting on set and hooked up a few times during filming, but it was apparent we were never going to be anything more than friends. She said once that we had enough spark to make fireworks in bed but lacked the heat to sustain any deeper feelings, which I still think sums it up. The last time was in Toronto, where we spent a week enjoying each other's company and she filled in as my 'plus one' at every event or party we could get into. After that we spoke right after Cora's first surgery and agreed to part ways -- I could hardly continue our arrangement when I'd just confessed my love for Cora.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Are you ready? I'll point out the emergency exits as we pass them." Olivia has been tense since we woke up this morning, despite my best efforts to relax her, and now that we've arrived at her parents' front door she looks as though she needs a stiff drink. Unfortunately it's a little early in the day for that.  
"What are you so worried about? I've met Caleb and I'm quite fond of you, how bad can it be?"   
"All of us together can be a little... overbearing."   
"I assure you I can handle it. Ever witnessed the competing egos on a film set?"

From the moment she rings the door bell I know with absolute certainty that we will fit perfectly into one another's families -- it's just like visiting my mum. There's a flurry of activity through the frosted glass, the squeals of small children and scurry and scratch of clawed feet at the door, followed by stern adult voices attempting to calm the excitement. A woman in her fifties opens the door, her face framed by cropped tawny hair and bold red oval glasses, and if I didn't already see similarities between mother and daughter it's impossible to miss the crinkle of her bright aqua eyes when she smiles.   
"Hello, sweetheart." She opens the door wide in invitation, holding it with her back while she wraps Olivia in a tight embrace.   
"Mum, this is Tom."   
"Judy," she says as she shakes my hand. "It's lovely to finally meet you, Tom."   
Olivia shoots her a look that I can't quite read but her attention is drawn by a small child wrapping around her leg.   
"Libi!" the little boy squeals, stretching upward until she scoops him up onto her hip.   
"Look at you! Look how big you are! Hey Ryder, can you say hi to my friend Tom?" Ryder buries his head in Olivia's shoulder and whispers something that elicits a giggle. "He's friendly, I promise." She turns to me and lowers her voice: "he says you're very tall."   
"Oh. Er..." I kneel down beside her and look up into his little face, a finger held uncertainly between his teeth. "Hello, Ryder. Is this better?"   
"Oh my god, he's proposing already!" Caleb's familiar voice shouts.

Within a few minutes the beetroot blush has faded from my cheeks, Ryder has warmed up considerably and his baby sister considers me a giant climbing frame, and my expectations have been thoroughly confirmed: this is a warm, loving family who almost mirror my own with the exception of being intact. As the meal passes and I see the affection between her parents it does smart just a tiny bit that mine can barely stand being in the same room, though. I'm fascinated by the obvious differences between identical twins Joseph and Caleb, enough that I make a note to look for anthropological or sociological studies into differing peer influences on twins in their situation. The way they dress, speak, gesture, all of their mannerisms are so incredibly different I doubt they could pass as the other if they tried -- even their posture varies. This is something I miss about acting, the study of people and behaviour, the why of what we do. Is it because Caleb is homosexual and identifies with a different culture, therefore feeling from a young age that he had to fit specific societal expectations of his appearance and the persona he projects, or is the change on a biological level and he was always going to be different from his heterosexual twin even though their DNA is identical? And if their DNA is identical, and we're born into a particular gender or identity or persuasion, how is it that one can be straight and one gay?

A tiny flat palm slaps right into my nose, bringing me out of my cogitation and back to the outside world. Evidently little Allegra is demanding more than just climbing all over me.

"I'm sorry, was I not paying attention?"   
She gurgles something incoherent and grabs a fistful of hair, tugging my head forward.   
"Allegra, please let go," her mother, Arielle, says from across the table. "You'll be scaring him away!"   
"Nonsense." I laugh and lift her up to blow a cackle-inducing raspberry on her tummy.   
"He's a keeper," I hear Arielle say to Olivia. "The kids love him. He'll be a great dad."   
Olivia blanches and squeezes my thigh apologetically, but I smile and shake my head to reassure her it's fine. It's just a joke, intended to thoroughly embarrass us both and further break the ice between the new boyfriend and her close knit family. It rattles me more than I'm comfortable with, though.

Not long after lunch it's time for me to head off to the theatre but I insist Olivia stay -- I'll be seeing her soon for the final show anyway. I need to clear my head, my thoughts and emotions have slowly but surely been getting away from me and now they're sprinting in quite opposite directions. Cora's pendant is tucked safely in my pocket, the cord attached with a pin to avoid the panic of losing it again -- I just felt I needed it today, needed to know she was with me. Whether that relates to the last performance of my first show as a crew member or my general disposition I'm not entirely sure, but even before she'd gone Cora knew that some days I'd just need the reassurance. Among the many promises I made to her in her last weeks -- that I'd never love anyone like I loved her, that I'd never lose hope she'd get another heart... hell, we even recited wedding vows at one stage and I'd have married her at any moment if she'd only let me -- was the promise to grieve and move on. I promised to live and love and find happiness again. But I never intended to keep that vow. She was all I ever wanted, and I never believed for a second that her death let me off the hook. When I said I loved her and I would always love her, when I said we'd be married if she weren't so stubborn, I said it with the hope that she would live. Just because she didn't my words are not null and void.

Before Luke left the other day he suggested I see the therapist again, and I probably should. I know exactly what she'll say, though. That allowing myself to fall in love with Olivia would feel like accepting the enduring finality of Cora's death, and that a part of me is still holding on to her because I don't want to let go and forget. Firstly that's ridiculous, there's barely an hour goes by I don't think of her in some way. And secondly, of course I don't want to accept it and let her go. How could I?

As the time ticks away until I need to meet Olivia I change into a blue chalk striped suit and pressed white shirt, and wait just inside the door until she texts that she's almost here. Again my brain kicks into overdrive and for a minute it seems silly to make such a public statement by entering together and being so deliberately seen for the tabloids, but I brush it off as what the Marvel PR machine wants and what both of our reps advised was the easiest way.

And then I open the door for her, and nothing else matters.   
My mind is quiet.   
She asked me a few days ago which dress she should wear, showing me a collection of vintage outfits she's never worn. I was such a fan of the last one she felt safe to do the same again but she baulked at the idea of this particular one because of its 'look at me' frills and wide bright blue waist. At the time I didn't get to see her in it and I'm blown away by the change in her composure: she holds her head high, presses her lips confidently against mine in greeting, and walks hand in hand with me like she wears those heels every day.

Being among the first to arrive means we can't sneak in unnoticed but we've avoided the strobe of camera flashes, and she smiles as I hand her a glass of champagne.   
"Piece of cake," she says, taking a sip. I reach out and finger a soft curl at the side of her face.   
"You're so beautiful. No matter what you're wearing you're the most gorgeous woman in the room. The only one I see."   
She blushes. "Thank you. You were right, this was definitely the dress for the occasion."   
"It suits you." My eyes slowly pass down her body, from the soft floral layers covering her breasts to her cinched waist and curved hip, down to her smooth bare legs, before I drag them back up to her smirking lips and raised eyebrow.   
"I'm sorry about this afternoon, they're all a little overexcited. I haven't taken a guy home to meet them... ever."   
"Really?" I'm genuinely surprised, she's so close with her family I would have thought their impression was important to her.   
"I haven't really dated much... at all. Anyway, Joseph married his high school sweetheart so I think Caleb and I were sort of expected to have the same happy ending plotted out. They automatically assume if we bring someone home we're thinking about marriage and children and settling down for the rest of our lives."

I take a long draw from my glass to fill my suddenly dry mouth. When I look up Lauren is approaching and I wave her over.   
"Lauren, this is --"   
"Olivia," Lauren interrupts with a knowing smile. "We met at opening night after you left her at the bar."   
Oh.   
"You two know each other?" Olivia asks.   
"Yeah, we worked on a film together." Thankfully I don't have to will Lauren not to divulge any further details, I know she's not that kind of woman. "Many years ago."   
"Now, now. Let's not age either of us more than we have to." Lauren laughs and Olivia joins in. That wasn't at all my intent, but that feels like a life time ago. A different life. A different me. I can not imagine behaving the way we did, then. Without fear or forethought. We chat for a few minutes and then Lauren hands me her card. "In case you want to give an exclusive to an independent theatre blog. Actually I hoped I could send you some questions about the show?"   
"Absolutely, I'll email you tomorrow."   
"Thanks, Tom. I'll let you guys mingle a bit. Nice to see you both again." She only takes one step away before turning back to address Olivia. "You have to give me the name of your stylist or let me raid your wardrobe some time, that dress is amazing and you look divine."   
Olivia's cheeks flush but she holds her head high, as though she feels as confident as she looks. "Thank you. And I'm sure we can arrange something."

I can sense Olivia's growing tension the more I introduce her around, so after a good chat with Jo I lead her to our seats. It's a great experience to see the show from the audience, especially with a full house, but I'm a long way from giving it my full attention -- my hand is far too busy either on Olivia's thigh or woven into her fingers. Occasionally I creep a little too high and she giggles before gently slapping it away and drawing patterns on my palm, which for some reason drives me so crazy I have to adjust my trousers. By the time it's over our appearance at the after-party is as short as I can manage, and with a quick apology to Jo -- who simply winks and pushes me toward the door -- we're in the car on the way home. I suppose there's a chance I'm overcompensating for the confusion I've been feeling lately, but I just can't keep my eyes off of her. Or my hands, for that matter.

All the way home our lips were joined and I let my fingers brush the lace of her panties until she whimpered into my mouth. Now I have her skin pressed against mine in bed, my fingers gently probing her folds while she strokes my desperate cock.   
"Tom," she breathes. "I want you."   
It takes all I have not to just roll her over and push inside, claim her and fill her until I'm spent. But I have other plans, something I've wanted to do for a while and she's always distracted or denied me.   
"Patience, darling." I turn her to her back and drink her in, leaning in to trail kisses down the side of her neck while my hand follows the curve of her torso. "Do you have any idea how absolutely gorgeous you are? I could not stop watching you tonight. Your smile, the sparkle in your eyes, not to mention the body I know you hide under that dress."   
I cup her breast and take her nipple gently into my mouth, sucking a little harder when she arches her back and whines. She threads her fingers into my hair and sighs, rubbing her body against mine. As I move further down I take great joy in finding every sensitive spot that makes her breath hiss through her teeth, the parts that make her giggle, and kissing every freckle I can find. Eventually I'm parting her knees and settling between her legs, biting very lightly at her inner thigh and then soothing it with my tongue, letting my breath warm her sex as I breathe in her delicious scent. I explore first with my fingers, sucking off the juices from inside and then seeking out the hidden bud that makes her legs draw up and her lips press together in a bitten-back moan. It swells as I thrum against it with the pads of my fingers, her hips very subtly moving against me, and I kiss a path up her thigh before I speak.  
"God, Olivia... I want to taste you. Lick and suck you and make you scream my name." I feel her belly harden beneath my hand and look up, her eyes are squeezed shut. "Tell me what you're thinking. I won't do anything you don't want me to."   
"It's not that I don't appreciate it, I've just never really... done that."   
"Really?"   
She nods.   
"But you want me to?"   
"I don't know."   
"Ok. How about this. You let me try, and tell me if you want me to stop. I won't bring it up again, I don't want you to reciprocate or expect anything in return, I just want to pleasure you."   
She nods again but her voice is a squeak. "Ok."   
"Now. Relax, let go, and enjoy. If you're not enjoying it just say so."

I kiss the top of her mound, then her outer lips, feeling her muscles give way just a little. Once I've worked out what she likes -- long, hard licks make her tense beneath my touch, but constant contact and slow circles or fluttering on her bud make her writhe and moan -- she practically melts into the mattress and gives over to my mouth. Keening whimpers quickly give way to grunts and expletives and it's then I know I'm getting it just right, alternating suckling at her clit with pushing my tongue inside her. When she begins to withdraw I hold firmly around her hips and pull her up against my mouth, desperate for her sweet rush of release.   
"Fuck, Tom... oh... oh, my god... I'm... ah, fuck... I'm gonna..."   
The rest is lost as she turns rigid for a beat and holds her breath, a whine drawing from her parted lips as her body falls back down onto the bed. Only then do I release my grip, kissing her juicy lips and then her inner thighs before working my way back up.

Olivia has both hands over her face, her breath coming in shallow pants. She laughs as I tug them away from her flushed face, the red of her cheeks and sheen of sweat on her skin only making her eyes shine more. When I lean in to kiss her she places a hand on my cheek as though to stop me, but after a second she pulls me in and eagerly takes her essence from my tongue. Wordlessly she rolls us both over and lowers herself onto my cock, and the relief of her warmth on my throbbing erection almost immediately overwhelms me.   
"Shhh. Go slow," I say when she starts to move. She smiles and rocks languidly back and forth, sometimes sitting up and letting her head fall back so that I might take those perfect breasts in my hands and knead until her nipples are like pebbles in my palm. And then she lays her body on mine, buries her face in my neck as she takes me deep with each stroke, her moans muffled and kisses sloppy. Finally she sits back and pulls me up to be with her, concentration creasing her brow as she quickens her pace in pursuit of another climax. The second she cries out my fingertips are digging into her back as I erupt inside, her walls drawing more of my seed with every wave of pleasure.

She looks upon me as though seeing me for the first time, her eyes glistening and dancing with something I can't define... something new. Combing the hair back from my face she examines every inch of me, kissing my cheeks and nose and forehead, the corner of my mouth, and drawing her thumbs along my cheeks before resting one on the centre of my lips.

"I love you, Tom."

Olivia's eyes -- god, those beautiful eyes that sparkle with magic and light up brighter than the sun -- are darting from one of mine to the other, searching for acceptance, a reaction, some sort of sign that it was okay for the words to escape. Her lip begins to tremble and she looks away to the window.

I can't give her what she needs. I can't feel what she wants me to feel. I can't say the words she needs to hear.

I cup her cheek and swipe my thumb over her lips, gently bringing her gaze back to mine, and then I kiss the hell out of her and hope with all that I have that it's enough.

 


	13. Brave New World

**Olivia**

"I don't want you to go."    
I've whispered the words many times the past few weeks, always when he's asleep or otherwise occupied. Although I feel somewhat confident in Tom's feelings for me and I'd like to not rely on hearing the words to confirm it, I feel like when I said 'I love you' I put a tiny chip in the windscreen of our relationship. It might be fine to carry on driving for now but any added stress and the cracks will begin to spread until it shatters entirely. I can't take it back. I don't *want* to take it back. I can only tread carefully and hope it all works out. At the time I felt it and immediately expressed it, I didn't stop to conduct a risk assessment.  
  
Tom's sleepy, even breath is warm on my forehead and I nuzzle against his chest. The truth is I don't want him to go, I'm afraid that it will be the end of us if we leave things so unresolved. So much can happen in three months, as evidenced by what we've become in the same amount of time, and I don't know how to ease the worry that he'll have time to think objectively about recent events. It all boils down to one thing, banging over and over in my head like a marching drum:    
*What if he doesn't miss me?*  
  
"Come with me," he said last night in the warm, floaty haze of afterglow. Hovering over me, his blue eyes pleading as his thumb stroked my cheek. I lifted my hand to drag my fingertips over the clammy skin of his shoulder with a long sigh.    
"I can't, Tom. I wish I could, but Jonah needs me here."     
He kissed me and flopped back onto the pillow. "I understand your hesitation, but he has Caleb and a good support network. He might surprise you."    
"I'd prefer not to go quite so far to be surprised. This isn't a quick trip to France."    
"Okay, well we can Skype whenever you like. Call. Text. It feels like a long time but we'll make it work, I promise."    
His optimism at the time was contagious but unfortunately short-acting. I love him and I want it to work but I'm in constant conflict with the little voice that tells me to protect my heart. It's never been broken by a man and it's never been in quite the position of peril it's in now.  
  
Tom's arms tighten around me and his lips graze my forehead. "You smell good," he murmurs, inhaling against my hair. "Always smell so good."    
I let myself be pulled tight against him and tuck my head into his shoulder, our naked fronts pressing together as he wraps his leg protectively over mine. "So do you," I whisper.    
"I love you."    
Tom's barely enunciated words hang in the thick air and I don't dare say anything lest I break the spell. He's already relaxed and sleeping again and after a few minutes begins to mumble, mostly incoherently. "I miss... still need you. No... no..."    
I press a kiss to his collarbone and rest my hand over his racing heart until it slows and he falls silent. Another night, another dream about Cora. If he knows he's said anything aloud he doesn't ever let on, though he does sometimes admit to dreaming of her. I don't tell him that it hurts to know that I'm naked in his arms and his dreams are of another woman, because he can't help it and I know he'll never really get over it, but some days it's difficult to comfort him when I need comfort myself. With a deep breath I let his scent overwhelm me and the lazy beat of his heart take me slowly back to sleep.   
  
When I wake later there's a golden glow about the room and Tom's fingertips are drawing up and down my spine. I smile as his nose nudges mine and he kisses me gently, but it fades when I remember what day it is. 'Please don't go,' I want to say. 'Just stay here with me. Your acting career wasn't that important, surely.' I don't, because I'm not so selfish, but I kind of wish I could get away with it or delay him for a few more days. His large hand squeezes my thigh and up to my bottom, pulling my leg over his as he deepens the kiss. Before I'm really awake his fingertips are dipping into my folds and he groans, finding me already wet. As I kiss his neck his cock twitches in my hand and my fingers are sticky with pre-cum, his deep appreciation vibrating beneath my lips. My eyes flutter open to find him already staring at me while positioning my leg higher on his hip, giving him access to my depths first with his fingers and then his long, veined shaft, pressing it inside slowly and then pausing to explore my mouth with his tongue. Tom only starts to move when I push my hips forward and moan into his kiss, eager to feel the delicious friction of his cock deep within, and it's slow and thorough, prolonging our last hours together.   
  
As I feel the pull of climax I burrow against his neck and claw at his shoulders.    
"Look at me, love. I want to see you." His voice is deep and strained, his wide blue eyes flicking between mine as he tips me over the edge. "So beautiful." He covers my mouth with his, probing for my tongue as he continues his unhurried thrusts and carries me through the waves of pleasure.     
Building me toward a second peak, those eyes never leave my face. The way Tom looks at me is like nothing I've ever experienced -- I feel at once drawn in and uncomfortably exposed, like that moment is the most important of both of our lives -- and he manages it multiple times every day. I've seen similar in the way he listens to others with his mostly undivided attention, too, although sometimes I wonder if it's overcompensation for the ease with which a speck of dust in the right light can distract him. But for me, it's different. Special. Terrifyingly intimate. Sometimes it's so intense I have to look away.   
  
Tom flips me to my back without breaking his rhythm, adding the pad of his thumb to the effort. As soon as my body turns rigid he's right there with me, moaning into my open mouth as we come together and his seed floods me with warmth. We stay that way for a long time, neither game to speak, just kissing and catching our breath. I wash him down in the shower, lathering up a pink puffy loofah and covering every inch of his body with bubbles and claiming his lips once more beneath the deluge to rinse it off.     
  
"I'm gonna go first," I tell him as I finish my coffee. "Otherwise I'll have to watch you leave *and* walk away."    
He crosses the kitchen to where I'm leaning on the bench, lifting me up to sit on it as though I weigh nothing. How does he do that, hide so much strength in his lean form?     
"You could stay here, if you wanted to."    
"Why would I do that when you're not here?"    
"Well perhaps you could surprise me and move in while I'm not here, or leave some important things here, so when I come back you don't have to go home so often. Just think about it. Keep the key." He leans in and kisses me but quickly pulls back and frowns, pointing a finger at the centre of my chest. "You mess with the books, it's over."    
I laugh and wrap my legs around his thighs, pulling him closer. "You don't touch mine, I won't touch yours. Deal?"    
"Deal, gorgeous." His phone bleeps from the bench and he swipes across the screen. "Thirty minutes. I have to finish getting dressed."    
My fingers trail over the sparse hairs on his chest. "You should go like that. Really get the fan girls talking."    
"I doubt I have many fans left at this point, darling, but I appreciate your enthusiasm."     
With my hand behind his neck I pull him into a deep, passionate kiss, fighting back the tears that prick my eyes and swallowing the lump in my throat. I just have to keep it together for a few more minutes. As he hands me my bag I can feel his eyes on me and even before I see it I know he has *that* look, with one eyebrow slightly higher than the other, an almost apologetic curl in one side of his mouth.     
Please don't go.    
He holds me against him, his forehead resting on mine. "I'll let you know as soon as I land."    
I nod. If I open my mouth all the wrong words will fall out.    
"I'll miss you," he whispers.   
  
I have to go then, otherwise I'll turn into a blubbering mess and cling to his tree trunk of a leg like a small child. I haven't said those words since the first time and I'm sure as hell not going to ruin the moment by saying them now, unless he does first. We've had our last kiss, and our very last kiss, and the 'run back for just one more' kiss -- twice -- before I'm at the gate.    
"Olivia?"    
I turn back so quickly I almost lose my footing on the pavement. "Tom?"    
"Take care, okay? Stay safe."    
Just smile and nod and get around the first corner. "You too."    
I can't look back again even though I feel his eyes on me. My plan to just get around the corner and pause to gather myself is foiled when I realise how many people are out on the street, so I continue on to the station, and the tube. Just keep walking. I have to keep moving, once I allow myself to be still it's all going to fall apart, so I disembark two stops early and walk the rest of the way to the office.   
  
And I walk right in on Caleb with Jonah's dick in his mouth.    
"You weren't coming in today!" Jonah shouts, tucking himself back into his pants.    
I'm kind of just standing in between our offices like a deer in the headlights, unable to look away. On the way up the stairs I imagined just coming in and slumping onto the couch for a good cry, but all I can manage is a strangled sort of laugh.    
"Are you okay?" Caleb asks, rising from his knees and coming toward me.    
"No, not really. Tom is leaving today, and he didn't... and I... no. I'm not."    
"Come here," he says, opening his arms.    
"No! I can't accept a hug from my brother when he has a boner and just had Jonah's dick in his mouth, you jerk."    
I fall back into the couch while they both just sort of stare at me awkwardly and adjust their pants.     
"This is awkward. Sorry." Jonah sits down beside me, leaving enough gap that we're not touching.     
"Can I hug you now?" Caleb asks timidly, sitting on my other side.     
"Yes please."    
He encircles me in his arms. "Cranky bitch."    
"Your terms of endearment are unusual and confusing," Jonah says, doing the same from my other side. "I'm sorry you're sad, though. What can I do?"    
I sniffle and wipe tears from my cheeks. "Nothing. Just stay here for a while."  
  
[I miss you already]    
Tom's text arrived just after I was out of sight, but thankfully I didn't see it until much later when I dragged myself off the couch. Thankfully, because I would have run right back.    
[Have a safe trip and steer clear of the Australian wildlife xx] I text back.     
He doesn't respond. He'll be on the plane, now. Somewhere between here and Brisbane. I dry my eyes, cover the evidence as best I can with a concealer stick from my satchel, and open my laptop. Might as well get this book finished while I have the time.     
*What exactly did I do with all of my spare time before Tom?*    
I can't concentrate, though. Did he ask me to move in with him, or did I read too much in to it? He doesn't love me, but he wants me to surprise him by moving in, even though it was his suggestion so wouldn't really be a surprise at all? Whether it's the crying, the confusion, or something unrelated, my brain seems determined to pound its way out through my skull. I should have just gone home.  
  
The first few days pass slowly, even with my head buried in work, and the words don't flow but I'm determined to push through. Tom and I talk every day and text every few hours, and while I mostly find this a comfort there are times when I miss him so much that hearing his voice makes it worse. He seems to have fallen back into acting like he never left, telling me all about the excitement and ease of working with Chris again, how refreshing it is to work with someone who thinks like Taika, the hours of makeup. Occasionally he'll send me a selfie in full costume and it makes my heart skip, the dark hair and pale makeup, the leather. Caleb has loaned me the DVDs to watch Loki in action but I'm yet to get around to it -- it seems weird to watch your boyfriend on screen I guess.  
  
[One month down, two to go. Sweet dreams, gorgeous xxx] Tom texts as he's beginning his day and mine is about to end. Sometimes we text back in forth while he's in makeup, and last week he 'introduced' me to the makeup department via Skype, which felt a little awkward given I was in bed with no pants. The time seems to rush forward and then slow almost to a stop like an overly zealous piece of romantic music, but the end will inevitably arrive and he will be home safe and sound. Tom has asked a few times if I've been to his house, but it just doesn't feel right to be there without him. Besides that, if I was premature with the declaration of love then I'm not sure we should be moving in together. Perhaps he does love me, I feel like he might but is afraid to say the words. And I understand, but thinking about it makes me feel deflated and exhausted, like I'll spend the rest of our relationship in competition with another woman who will always be perfect in Tom's eyes, always be his first choice.   
  
Tom is happier than I've ever seen him and I'm convinced now that acting is what he was born to do. He might not have made the decision yet but there's little doubt in my mind that he will continue making films now that he's had a taste of it again, which weighs heavily on my mind some days. When we got involved I didn't know who he was and I actively avoid attention in everything I do, so even if he doesn't gain more popularity with each film I'm so far out of my comfort zone my skin prickles just thinking about it. I'm sure he'll spend most of his time on sets in other countries, promoting like crazy, travelling the world, and it's not that I believe the universe revolves around me but it begs the question... What about me? Where do I fit in to that life? But then I see him on my screen, I talk to him or I read his texts, and I'm reminded every time I look at my bookshelves. It's Tom, and it could be worth the temporary emotional discomfort. So I sit with the uncomfortable feelings, hug them and reassure them, and I listen to Tom's enthused babbling about this scene and that line and hanging from wires and working with his heroes and best friends. He deserves happiness and success, and this is a new and exciting stage of his life. One that I want to be part of, for better or worse.  
  
The next day is one of those Fridays that drags on forever. Even when we go out to get lunch my eyes ache in the sunlight, I feel like I've been staring at the screen for days on end. It's taken this long to get Jonah into the routine again, only now we go together. He orders for us both and I choose a table outside to take advantage of the warm weather.    
"You'll get cancer," he says when he returns and I have my face angled toward the sun, eyes closed against the glare.     
I shrug in response.    
"How's Tom?"    
"Busy. His day begins at four a.m. and he doesn't get a lot of free time, but he seems to be really enjoying it. He missed it, I think."    
"You're not coming for dinner tonight?"    
I'd forgotten entirely, mum invited me for dinner with the family and I immediately declined, though I can't recall why. "No, I have writing to do."    
"Shame. Everyone is coming."    
"It's kind of like being single again, though. Everyone's there with their partners all loved up and then there's spinster aunt Olivia rocking in the corner. No thanks."    
"But you're not single."    
"It kind of smarts having to see everyone being affectionate when I can't, you know?"    
Jonah shakes his head. Physical affection does not always equal pleasure, how could I forget?    
"How are you doing? Things are going well with Caleb?"    
"Yeah. He's so loving and patient. We have disagreements but not often. He asked me to move in with him, did he tell you?"    
"No! That's huge!"    
"I mean I can't, but it was nice of him to ask."      
Some would ask 'why' at this point, but I know him better. "What if he moved in with you? You practically live together anyway."    
"But we don't. He has a bedside table with three drawers, one drawer in the bathroom. He'd have to get rid of all of his stuff."    
"Or, you could compromise and give him a little more room. That's what couples do."    
He looks out the window while he considers for a minute and shakes his head. "I'm happy with things the way they are now."    
I know a Jonah heel-dig when I see one, and he isn't going to budge. Even for me. "Me too, Jonah. Me too."  
  
I find myself in a bit of a funk the rest of the afternoon, stuck on some dialogue and unable to concentrate. I feel restless and kind of detached, and I don't know what's causing it. Since Tom left I have genuinely had a sense of disconnection from my life before him, as though I was just treading water and waiting for our paths to converge, only I wasn't. I was happy and fulfilled and didn't for a second feel like I wasn't complete just as I was or needed a man to make some excitement in my world. Maybe I do need to get back to what I did before and find some balance so that when he returns my entire existence doesn't depend on him, because if he decides to return to acting this is going to be a regular occurrence and I will not be the girlfriend who doesn't have her own life.     
"Is it too late to add one more for dinner this evening?" I ask mum on the phone.    
"Never. I'm so glad you changed your mind," she says. "A little warning, though. Your father has a bee in his bonnet about you lot all using your phones instead of talking to each other, and last week Ryder was wandering around watching something on Joseph's which just made him more determined. He has declared this evening technology-free and will collect your phone at the door."    
"But, Tom..."    
"I know, sweetheart. It's just a few hours. Surely the poor boy could miss you a bit and there won't be any harm?"    
"Yeah, you're right. I'll see you soon."  
  
Just as we were warned, our phones, tablets, laptops, and even Joseph's watch are taken and locked in a cupboard as soon as we walk through the door, and it's really not so bad. I spend a lot of time watching Jonah and Caleb together while we eat and talk, thinking back to a year ago when he wouldn't have coped with this many people and children running around a confined space, but now the only sign he's the slightest bit uncomfortable is when Caleb squeezes his hand in reassurance. Those little gestures and looks that no one else would have seen before, Caleb is noticing and reacting to them immediately and it makes me so emotional I slip outside for some air.     
"Liv? You okay?" Caleb startles me when I was looking up at the stars, wondering what time it is in Australia. I probably should have warned Tom I wouldn't be able to answer him, but he has no reason to worry about little old me. I'm not the one surrounded by gorgeous people gushing all over him and touching him... "Is this pity party for one or can anyone join?"    
I rub my nose and turn to face Caleb. "I am not having a pity party."    
"Oh, my beautiful man is away pining over me, he's so in love with me he texts a million times a day."    
"Jealousy is an ugly look on you, Caleb," I fire back, sitting down on the back step where I spent so much of my childhood daydreaming and making up stories in my head. "I actually needed a moment because of you and Jonah, you complement each other so perfectly."    
"He's amazing, the way his brain works... I'll never get tired of having him just talk to me. I'm completely in love with him."    
"Ohhhh." I let my head fall onto his shoulder as tears spring from my eyes. "You have no idea how happy that makes me. He told me you asked him to move in."    
He chuckles. "In hindsight that was just stupid. It's too soon, and I hadn't thought about the logistics. There was a romantic moment and I took it before my brain caught up."    
"I thought a relationship would put more strain on him, but with you he's so relaxed. I don't think he's had a meltdown or an anxiety attack in more than a month."    
Caleb shrugs. "A couple, but we got through them."  
  
I don't know how I feel about that. Relief should be flooding through me at the revelation that someone else can carry some of the responsibility, but there's an undercurrent of jealousy and I feel sort of redundant. No one else has ever been able to talk Jonah around and the idea that he might not need me any more isn't sitting all that well.     
"Jonah is doing really well, Liv. Letting me comfort him, and learn his routines."    
More tears spill on to my cheeks. "I never thought he'd let anyone in that way. Is he still having nightmares?"    
"Sometimes. Not as often as before."    
"I haven't heard about one in weeks."    
"That's a good thing, isn't it? I know you think no one else sees the sacrifices you've made for him --"    
"He's my best friend! That's just what people do for each other, he'd do the same for me." I didn't mean for my voice to be so harsh, but he actually recoils a little.    
"Yes, but you've turned down opportunities to be sure you could always be here for him. It's a huge thing to do for someone and I'm not saying you're off the hook now and I'll take over, but you can at least rest assured that he's well looked after."    
That's actually kind of frightening. I don't feel I've given up a great deal to be here for him at all, but I have at times known that it was a convenient reason to avoid particular situations that took me away from home. Am I now going to be pushed in to all of those things before I'm ready?  
  
"Can I ask you something?"    
"Sure," he says.     
"It's about Will." I pause while he puffs out his breath and nods. "You said for a long time he was the love of your life and you wouldn't do that again... Do you compare him and Jonah?"    
"I'm not sure what you're getting at."    
"Tom's Cora, the one who passed away. He still dreams of her, I hear him talking to her in his sleep. I feel like she'll always be his first choice, that even if he does somehow fall in love with me it will only be because she's not here."    
"No. It's like... if Will was still around then we might be together or we might not, but I wouldn't have ended up with Jonah because my entire life would be different. This is just the way things turned out, there's no choice about it. I loved Will, and he'll occupy a place in my heart just as he would if we'd broken up but he was still living, but now I love Jonah. They're separate entities, I don't have to stop caring about one to make room for the other. We all have infinite capacity to love, it's not like Jonah is missing out on ten percent because it's reserved for Will."    
I nod and he puts his arm around me. "It's terrifying, falling in love again. I knew it was coming and all I could think was that something might happen to Jonah just like it did to Will. Losing someone like that again would break me." He shudders. "I wouldn't recover and I wouldn't want to. It all changes the day you accept and embrace that risk and decide to do it anyway, because it's always better to love and be loved than be cautious and feel nothing."    
"I get that. Tom isn't ready for that yet. He doesn't love me."    
"Honey, I've seen the look in his eyes. He's not ready to admit it, but he's already in deep. If you're worried about his eye wandering to an actress while he's away, don't. Those eyes aren't straying from you even if he wants them to."  
  
A sharp boom of thunder catches us both by surprise, rumbling in the ground beneath us.     
"I love summer storms." I tip my head back, smelling the air for impending rain and looking around for accompanying lightning. After a few minutes there's a siren or two in the distance and we both leap to our feet, uttering "Jonah."    
"Um... can I? Please? You're here if he needs you, but I didn't handle this well last time."    
"Of course."    
And he leaves me sitting there, in an uncomfortable silence with nothing but my own thoughts, waiting for the storm to roll in while he talks Jonah out of a panic attack before it can begin.


	14. Around the World in Eighty Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N: Trigger warning - terrorism, multiple casualties*

Won't someone please shut off that infernal noise?    
"Olivia," I mumble. "Your alarm..."     
Half-asleep, I turn over toward her side of the bed. Only it isn't her bed, or mine, and she's not there. Perhaps by luck I've turned toward her side of the world, but really for that I'd probably have to be face down. I groan and rub my eyes while feeling around the nightstand for the source of the noise, jabbing at the phone screen with clumsy fingers until it stops. Now in the silence I can hear the crash of waves on Broadbeach below, the sand that waits for my tired footprints where even the graders have yet to smooth it over.   
  
I should have stayed in last night. I knew it even then, but it was lovely to have dinner with Chris and Elsa. The house they're staying in is magnificent, just far enough from the beach that the children can't wander to it unescorted but close enough that we could feel the salt air on our faces while eating on the back deck.     
"You missed this," Chris said with a knowing smirk. "Tell me you haven't missed it."    
"I have indeed. I don't know if I realised how much until I really got into it. Truth be told I had concerns I'd be fired in the first week because I'd forgotten how to act."    
He and Elsa laughed. "As if that was ever going to happen to you, RADA boy," she teased. "It's so good to see you again, Tom. To see you smiling again."    
"I think I have Olivia to thank for that, it took a little while."    
"She must be special. Don't discount yourself, though. Healing takes time and it takes courage to let someone in again. When do we get to meet her?"    
I smiled and shook my head. "She's not coming over. Next time you're in London, I promise."    
  
It was when Elsa opened another bottle of wine and then left to put the children to bed that I knew we were going to regret it this morning.     
"Why didn't you tell me about Cora?" Chris asked quietly. "I thought we were close enough that you would have."    
I suppose filming something similar between Loki and Thor earlier in the day had stirred up some unresolved feelings, and they're not unjustified. We were close, but my love for Cora was always closely guarded. For so long I just assumed we'd end up together, when we were both in the right place and the timing was right, and I didn't want to jinx it. When I knew that time would likely never come it hurt too much to talk about with anyone, even my family.     
"I know that must have seemed hurtful, but I didn't tell anyone. After Coriolanus I didn't speak to anyone, really, because the idea of losing her was too painful to bear. That year, I had nothing but Cora. I spent every moment I could at the hospital. I needed to know that if she ran out of time I'd given her every last second and all of my attention."    
His huge hand squeezed my shoulder. "I can't imagine how difficult it must have been, the uncertainty of waiting for a transplant."    
"The worst of it was having the first one fail. She knew there wouldn't be another, she was just waiting to... I thought I had enough hope and positivity for the both of us. In the end her body just couldn't hold on."    
"I'm so sorry, mate. I didn't know."    
"No one did. I had a period right after she passed where I was so angry I couldn't control it, I felt like it would consume me. I blamed her, for surrendering to it. She made the choice to turn off the machine that was keeping her alive and she was so sure about it, so determined to die on her own terms. One day I just... stopped. I didn't feel anything, I didn't want to. So I didn't talk about her and I kept my own company because it was easier. And safer."    
The waves rolled in, crashing onto the sand in their steady rhythm, and we sat in silence until both of our glasses were empty and Elsa re-emerged.  
"Did I interrupt?"    
"Nothing but quiet reflection," Chris said, turning to me. "And now? What changed?"    
"Time, I suppose. Olivia was a big factor, I'd see her on the tube every morning and wonder about her. People watching was something I'd stopped without realising, but she caught my eye and my mind took over. I don't recall the catalyst but something made me think I wasn't really living my life like I'd promised to, so I started seeing a counsellor to help me untangle it all. It was Olivia that talked me into doing this, though. A little Kevin, but Olivia made up my mind."    
"I never had the fortune of meeting Cora but I can't imagine anyone not wanting their love to carry on after they're gone. If anything happened to me I'd want to know that Chris would seize the opportunity if love came along again, if only to know that he was still loved just as I loved him and someone was taking care of his heart."    
There was a pause while I considered her words. "You're right, of course. But saying the words... feels kind of like a betrayal. I mean, there's no stronger phrase than 'I'm in love with you'. I feel Cora might always be different but I can't find the words to differentiate the feelings."    
"Mate, I've seen your face when Olivia's on the phone, when you get a text from her, when you speak so highly of her. Admit it or not, you're in love with her."    
Elsa had fallen unusually quiet, running a single finger around the rim of her wine glass with her lips pressed into a thin line. She thought I wouldn't have noticed, but her body language is so strong she might as well be shouting.     
"Perhaps I am, I don't feel comfortable saying it out loud yet, though. I know that sounds pompously melodramatic, but I suppose I'm not ready."    
"Then let her go," Elsa said, more to the ring of condensation on the table than human ears.     
"Huh?" Chris grunted.    
She looked up at me as though she had hoped her words would go unheard, then spread her hands. "If you're not going to love her more than anyone else in the world — living _or_  dead — then let the poor woman move on with her life. If you're not willing to be just as vulnerable and open as she is you'll only break her heart."    
"Els," Chris began, but I held up a hand.     
"It's fine. She's right."    
"Just because you can't say it, doesn't mean you don't feel it," Chris said, defending me.    
"You're keeping part of it close to your chest, and it has nothing to do with Cora. You're keeping a piece of your heart from Olivia because you don't want to get hurt again, you think it will protect you from the same pain if it doesn't work out with Olivia or something happens to her. But let me tell you something, there is no protection. All you're doing is preventing the life you could have with her."  
  
Her words didn't just sting, it was like being run over by every carriage of a freight train. I'd sooner Chris punch me in the guts. Because she was right.  
  
Somehow we moved beyond that once I'd admitted she was right and agreed to think long and hard about my next move, and there were more bottles of wine. I'm not sure how many, they just kept appearing. I got in far later than I should have and I knew full well I'd feel like death this morning, but since the damage is entirely self-inflicted I pull my shorts up my wobbly legs, tie haphazard knots in my laces, and burn my lungs with the cool beach air.     
"I'm never drinking again." I don't bother with greetings once I see Chris's number on my screen, figuring he's feeling the same as I am.     
"Nah, me either," he says thickly. "Listen, I just spoke to Bobby Holland... apparently something's gone down in London. Details are a bit sketchy but I figured you might want to call your family, make sure everyone's safe?"    
I stop and rest my hands on my thighs, catching my breath to speak and get enough oxygen to my brain to understand his words. "What sort of something?"    
"Don't know, mate. Something on the underground. Only happened in the last half hour I think."  
  
Initially I try calling mum, Emma, Sarah, Olivia, Johanna, even my dad and then Luke, but I can't get through. By the time I'm back in my hotel with the television on a block of concrete has settled in the pit of my stomach. The news here is saying an explosion, showing lots of emergency service vehicles around tube stations and the spewing of black smoke from an air vent, but nothing else. No word on whether anyone is injured, some reports that there are carriages stuck between stations. A group text goes out to everyone I know in the area and I know it's been received when I finally get a reply from mum:    
[We're all safe. Sarah got a message from dad. Phones are jammed up, no one can get through and texts are taking ages.]    
Within the hour I'm in the car and on the way to the set, but I couldn't stomach breakfast. It's all over the radio, though still nothing confirmed, and Twitter is full of observations that aren't particularly useful. Police swarming the stations, the riot and tactical squads enabled, all landmarks under lockdown. Some say it was like an earthquake, others say smoke is coming out of the tunnels. Those I'm closest to are safe and accounted for, all except for one.  
  
I can't get hold of Olivia.   
  
The atmosphere on set matches my mood pretty well, oddly enough everyone is most concerned about Bobby and I and firing questions that neither of us can answer, as though we have some inside information.    
"You heard from your family, mate?" he asks me when I'm sitting in makeup.    
"Family, yeah. You?"    
"Yeah, thank god. I've a mate who got a text message out, he was on the train following the one that... it's not good. Said they've been told to sit tight, their carriages rocked so bad they thought they'd crashed, they've been locked in because the tunnel is full of smoke."    
"Do you know where? Which train?"    
"No. Packed, though. Everyone leaving for the week to go home."    
I nod. "There's someone I can't get hold of. Phones aren't working."    
That makes him move from leaning in the doorway to sit in the other chair. "Want me to keep trying as well?"    
"Thanks."  
  
There's no music in the trailer this morning, no chatter about the weather or funny events from previous days. It's so silent I can hear the hair of my wig passing through the comb, so when Bobby takes a sharp breath and then muffles an "Oh god, no," with his hand it's enough to make me leap from the chair.     
"What?"    
He scrolls back on his phone and reads from the screen. "Police can confirm that an explosive device was deliberately detonated in the centre carriage of the train at five thirty P.M., and subsequently a fire has spread to the other carriages. Emergency services have evacuated all stations and remaining trains but are yet to extinguish the blaze. It's not known how many are on board or injured at this stage. ISIS have claimed responsibility, warning there are more devices positioned throughout the tunnels. This is complicating efforts to get to the fire."    
It's all I can do to get out the door into open air before wretching uncontrollably, my mouth and nose filling with saliva and bile. Before I can get myself in order Chris is there, straightening me upright.     
"Breathe, mate. Take a breath. Did you hear from her?"    
I shake my head, crumpling ungracefully onto the cold concrete and forcing my lungs to inflate, fighting the contraction of every muscle in my torso. That was Olivia's train. The one she would have been on every afternoon. We rarely left the city at the same time, she kept regular hours where I'd often be late after rehearsals. That and I was never keen on going home too early, the empty house always felt so much worse in the early evening.     
"Maybe... maybe she wasn't on it. Maybe there are survivors and they just haven't reached them yet. Don't... there's still hope, yeah?"    
"I love her." I choke out.    
"I know you do, and so does she."    
"She doesn't. Fuck, why couldn't I just tell her?"    
"It's all right. She knows."  
  
Time loses all meaning. I should be back inside getting into costume but my body has shut down and I'm vaguely aware that when people approach Chris is silently waving them away. What do I do, now? Go home? I can't just sit here and wait for confirmation but at the very least it will take me close to a day to get there. But then, I'm useless here, and if the fire is so bad that people have been burned...    
I push up to my feet so fast Chris is a few seconds before he's on my heels. "I need to get on the first flight out of here. Can you help me?"    
"Tom, wait."    
At my trailer I retrieve my wallet and backpack. "Now, Chris. I can find it myself but it will take longer."    
He sighs and within a few seconds he's on the phone to someone, then hangs up. "There's nothing until this afternoon."    
"That will have to do. I can't just... What do I do?"    
He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know, mate."  
  
Taika called a hold on filming shortly after, so I had the car bring me back to the hotel to pack. I have a seat booked on the first flight out but it's still hours away so for now I find comfort in the mundane sorting and folding of my clothes. When I first see the message on my phone my mind can't quite comprehend it's meaning, I feel like someone must be playing a cruel joke.     
[Jonah and all of us are safe. I'll call as soon as I can get through.]    
At least her family are safe, though the number is unknown to me. Caleb would be my first guess.     
[Any word from Olivia?] I reply.  
And I wait, pacing the floor and tapping the screen back to life every time it threatens to darken, just in case the full volume tones don't alert me to a message soon enough. Finally it rings in my hand from the same number.  
"Tom, it's me."   
  
Never has a voice sounded so sweet to my ears.  
  
I can't speak. A choked sob tears at my throat and my legs crumple, leaving me precariously perched on the edge of the bed.    
"Tom, can you hear me? I'm okay, we all are. Are your family accounted for?"    
"Oh god, Olivia... I was so worried. It was your train."    
"I know." Her voice shakes and her breath is a sharp hiccup. "It's so awful. We felt it from here, I thought it was thunder."    
"I thought... you were... I thought I'd lost you. I thought you'd... and I never told you..."    
"I'm so sorry, we all put our phones away to spend some time together and by the time we realised something was happening there was too much congestion or something. A friend of Joseph's was on it, we think. They're saying there might be survivors but they can't get to them. I'll stay here tonight, we all need to be together."    
"I wish I could be there, darling. I booked a flight for this afternoon, so I'll be home... I don't know, I can't think. I just need to see you."    
She sighs, and in the next breath sounds more exhausted than I've ever heard. "It's going to be chaos at the airports, they're saying there will be more attacks. Tom, if there's no other need for you to leave... Please stay there where you're safe. I couldn't bear anything happening to you."    
"But I need to see you."    
"And you will, it isn't too much longer." There are hushed voices in the background and she sighs again. "I'll talk to you as soon as things settle down, I have to go."    
"Stay safe, okay?"    
"I will, I..."    
We're cut off.   
  
Unpacking my suitcase that day only took a few minutes, but the emotions I'd somehow stuffed into every space took weeks. I spent almost all of my free time alone, either running or in my temporary high-rise hotel home. Cora's pendant became such a fixture in my hand that I worried the leather cord would perish, my index finger always smoothing over its textured surface, hoping to read her fingerprint like braille for some sort of answer. Her words, among the last she ever wrote, are imprinted in my mind.    
'Remember to live.'  
  
As the sand kicked up behind my sneakers one morning I pondered the relative ease with which we can change our bodies, wishing there was a similar program for my mind. _Learn to say 'I love you' in 8 weeks_.     
"You're making it too complicated, mate," Chris said. "Remember when we first met? I was in awe of your fearlessness. You didn't ever overthink, you trusted yourself and everyone around you."    
I did, he was right. And I trusted my own decisions. Right up until I lost her. Because even after I tried to make up for all the missed opportunities and spent every moment I could by her side, it could never be enough. I still lost everything.   
  
I dream of Cora often. Sometimes I recall the events in detail but mostly I just wake up with a sense of her, a lingering touch or her scent in my nostrils. What I do remember is so real, and while I don't believe Cora herself is visiting my dreams I do suspect my subconscious uses her form to influence my thoughts. She's almost always wearing that hoodie, the one she left for me in the box from the day she kissed me with all she had and talked about our future with genuine faith that we'd have one. Lately I'm being reminded not of her words, but my own. Lying beside the river in the sun, when I told her it was okay to let go when she was ready. She smiles and strokes my face, her hands warm from being shoved in fleecy pockets, and tells me it's okay to let go. She curls in close, I kiss her forehead and tell her I love her, and I rise just close enough to consciousness that I know it's not real.   
  
Until recently it would leave me longing for her, wishing I could hold her one more time. Since Olivia has been in my bed, though, it's shifted. In my dreams I feel less need to connect our bodies as long as possible and more comfort in knowing she's not suffering. It's more like seeing your high school sweetheart after many years, where they might still make your heart skip a beat but you've both moved on and can be happy for each other. Only when I wake up I still miss her, some days the realisation is like losing her all over again. But somehow, by reminding myself frequently that she'd want me to be happy, I'm feeling less and less betrayal in my love for Olivia. I'm seeing the possibilities for happiness rather than heartbreak, and there's a version of the future where I can completely give myself to her without holding back.  
  
It took more than a month for the full details to be released, and another few weeks before the section of track was back in use. I hear there are plans in the works for a mural to be painted on the walls, illuminated at all times in memoriam of those who died. There were seventy-nine in all. Three hundred and twelve injured. Only a handful escaped unharmed from the rear-most carriage. The deceased were named after three weeks and my relief at not recognising any of them felt inexcusably selfish, but those hours where I believed Olivia was at the very least trapped and injured are still fresh in my mind even now. 'There, but for the grace of god, go I.' has never felt so poignant as when I see families mourning lost partners, parents, children. What causes me even more grief is the idea that I _didn't_  seize every possible moment and opportunity, that I've allowed fear to hold me back.   
  
Olivia insisted upon immediately returning to normal routine, including her daily commute. I was at once proud of her resilience and anxious to protect myself against a repeat of that awful morning, but as the Prime Minister seems to remind us on the daily we can't let fear determine our actions or rule our lives. 'Stiff upper lip' and all that. She said the atmosphere on the first day was thick with tension and eerily silent, people's breath catching at every jolt or thud. Now it's business as usual, attention has returned to devices and the steely determination of minding our own business.   
  
The terminal at Heathrow is licked by orange flames of sunlight as we approach, lighting it up in a blinding welcome. I wanted to surprise Olivia but couldn't resist spilling the good news when I found out I'd be coming home a day earlier than I planned. Now my stomach swarms with butterflies and my skin vibrates with anticipation despite the long flight and lack of sleep, and before long I'm in a cab on the way to her apartment. I thought she might still be sleeping, but when I'm a few minutes away she replies to my text.    
[You have the front door code and my door is unlocked ;)]    
And on top of everything else my cock stirs in my pants just from an emoji wink. In my defence it's been a long three months on the other side of the world and nothing I can do comes close to making love to Olivia. I draw and slowly release a few deep breaths in the hope I won't completely embarrass myself when I arrive.   
  
I let myself in quietly, leaving my suitcase by the door along with my shoes and socks. It's quiet inside her apartment, only the occasional passing car or the song of an excited bird breaks the silence. Olivia is stretched out in bed, wearing the t-shirt she stole from my drawer before I left, and it's ridden up to reveal an inviting strip of skin above her pink cotton knickers. Her breath is slow and even, she must have fallen back to sleep after she sent the text. For a long few minutes I lean in the door frame and just admire her, revel in the joy of coming home to her. My heart swells and emotion makes a lump in my throat. I want to wake up to her like this every morning, always, and I want to devote my life to fulfilling her every need.  
  
Olivia stirs as I ease myself onto the unoccupied side of the bed, shifting so that I'm pressed against her back and pressing tiny kisses to her exposed shoulder. She takes my arm and wraps it tight around her, lacing her fingers between mine and squeezing with a contented sigh.    
"This is like a dream," she says, her voice raspy from sleep. "Welcome home, honey."    
"It's so good to be home, to come home to you. God, Olivia," I nuzzle her neck and fill my lungs with her scent, "I missed you."    
She turns in my arms, weaving a hand behind my neck to pull my face to hers. "I missed you, too," she murmurs, her lips grazing mine before our mouths meet eagerly. The kiss is deep and draws the breath right from my lungs, her arms and legs threading between mine so our bodies cling together like our very fate depends upon it.   
  
When I pull back she's beneath me, both arms clasped around my neck, my hips resting between her legs. I don't recall flipping us over and realise I must be crushing her, but when I try to take more weight onto my arms she tightens her grip and pulls me back down against her smiling lips.  
  
So I kiss her some more. Until we're both out of breath and I can barely keep from grinding her into the bed. I have to keep control, else I'll spill the words out in the heat of the moment and they'll lose some sincerity. Her breath is heavy and hot in my face as I tuck her hair behind her ear.     
"I need to say something. Something I should have admitted before, but I was afraid. I've known it deep down for some time but I wasn't ready to admit it, to let it completely engulf me. I am, now."    
She smiles up at me, her eyes fixed on mine. Just as we've been so many times before: exposed; intimate; immersed; only this time my heart races with exhilaration rather than fear.     
"I love you, Olivia. Unconditionally, unreservedly, with all of this... me. Now." Gods, to her articulate and expressive mind that must have sounded like a conglomerated mush of random words. "I just love you. I love you."    
Moisture wells in her eyes but her smile broadens, and she even giggles a little at my bumbling. "I love you, too."    
"I didn't want to tell you on the phone, I wanted to be here and make it count. All right, it seems a little silly now. I should have just told you."    
"I love that you waited." She reaches up and smooths her thumbs over my cheeks then over my lips. "I just love you, exactly as you are."  
  
Our lips and tongues meet again, this time only parting for the swift removal of clothing. With every touch a sweet little moan or gasp escapes her throat and her skin flushes pink, a sheen of sweat coating her skin. She's so soft and pliable, opening for my fingers to find her wet and swollen, ready for me. Her delicate hand closes around my erection, using the drops from the tip to tease the sensitive nerves underneath until a deep, needy rumble rises in my throat.     
"I need you," she says, pushing me to my back and reaching over me for a condom. As she hovers over me I catch her breasts in my hands, sucking a hardened nipple into my mouth, and she rubs her folds over my length with a drawn out sigh.   
  
When she sits back on my legs I follow, exploring her soft skin with my hands and kissing the racing pulse in her neck while she rolls the sheath down my length. A squeal pierces the silence as I lift her and bend my legs before lowering her onto my throbbing cock, groaning as she sinks down on the length to settle in my lap and I wrap her legs around me. Neither of us can move much, which is exactly how I need her. If I have control I'll lose myself in her tight walls, fuck into her hard and fast, but I want to make this last. I want to feel her climax as it washes over her, the ebb and flow of her arousal when I build her to another, and another.   
  
The first is a slow and steady climb, she grinds back and forth, guided by my fingers digging into the welcoming flesh of her ass. It begins with a whimper and her nails scratching at my neck while I suckle her breast, making me moan around her nipple. As she cries out I let her take control, pulling down on her shoulders so I'm forced deep inside and her swollen bud rubs against my skin.     
"Come for me, love," I whisper against her jaw as she tips her head back.    
"Oh... Tom... Oh, god." She slows almost to a stop and grips me from the inside in rhythmic spasms, her heavy breath almost matching the tempo. I hold her tight against me and trail my fingers up and down her spine until she shudders. "That was really... intense," she says with a soft chuckle. Her eyes are dark, almost glazed over, and her cheeks flushed rosy pink.     
"Yes it was. You're so beautiful when you come."  Olivia lowers her gaze and smiles, coy like a school girl looking at the Kama Sutra for the first time. When I start to move our bodies together, though, she looks right at me again and takes my mouth in a searing kiss.   
  
Her first orgasm brought me so close to the edge that I know I won't last through another. When she begins clawing at me again I snake a hand down between us, gently rubbing that spot that makes her cry out with my thumb, and her moans become loud enough that I'm sure we'll interrupt her neighbours' breakfast. I might care if I weren't so lost in the moment, my own moans rising in volume and pitch until they're almost in unison, and as soon as her body stiffens I'm shouting and spilling fiercely inside her. As soon as I've ceased shaking I ease her legs back down beside my thighs, remaining inside as I lie back and take her with me. My still twitching cock softens within her walls as we kiss and sink into that lovely warm glow, her head eventually tucking beneath my jaw. She lets out a long, contented sigh.    
"God, I missed you. I missed us."    
"Mm. Me too. Did you think about moving in with me?"    
"I did, I suppose we need to talk about that and whether you'll go back to the Donmar or get in to acting again. Can we do it later? When the blood has returned to my brain?"    
"Of course."    
"I do want to, though. I want to wake up with you every morning and go to sleep with you every night. I want you to know when you come home I'll be there waiting."    
My chest swells with warmth. "That sounds perfect, what is there to talk about?"    
She's silent for a few beats and then laughs. "I can't remember."    
"It's settled, then?"    
"I suppose it is, as long as I get my own bookshelves."    
"You can have the spare room for your office and I will stay away from the books."    
She nods. "Now it's settled. I love you, Tom."    
"I love you too."    
I only escape her reach to dispose of the condom and set an alarm so I don't sleep the entire day before I'm holding her naked body close once more, falling asleep more easily than I have in months.


	15. Vilette

**Olivia**

"Hey Livi, did you know..."    
The words are starting to grate on me. My mood has been buoyed by Tom being home and that's the only reason I have any patience at all. Jonah has been telling me the ins and outs of terrorism, every type of bomb ever created, and now we're on to the lack of fire suppression systems in the tube tunnels. His anxiety level now begins the day at a nine where his baseline used to be around three or four, and like a stone thrown into a pond the ripples are slowly eroding the sanity of everyone around him.     
"How do I deal with this, Liv?" Caleb asked a few days ago, as though I was the expert. "It's been two months."    
"You remind him he has strategies," I told him, "just like I am."    
  
"It's time to stop now, sweetie," I tell Jonah when he pauses to see if I'm listening. "You'll work yourself up again."    
"They need to do something about this!"    
"Yes, there's going to be an inquest, and if they don't deal with it you're going to do your own research. We talked about this, remember?"    
"Yeah," he clicks away from the page and stands up, "okay. I need coffee."    
"You want me to come with you?"    
"Um..." The inner argument is almost painful to watch. "No," he says with a definitive nod.    
"Get me one too?" I hold out a tenner but he waves it away and leaves.    
Caleb has not only been a source of support and comfort for him but he challenges Jonah in ways that I never could, and where I thought his development from this point would be all about overcoming obstacles as they're presented Caleb has opened him to the idea of looking for new experiences to test himself. Of course, the current obsession with the tube attack is a roadblock we need to work through first.     
  
I'm deep in thought when I hear Jonah's voice and then another familiar baritone in counterpoint, growing louder as they ascend to our office.    
"Look who I picked up on the way."  
"Hello, love," Tom says as he leans down to kiss me and sets a coffee cup down on my desk. Since his return we've spent every spare moment together but even that doesn't seem enough, he's been visiting me at work every day. I think he's finding himself at a loose end, not yet decided on whether he'll return to acting. The pile of scripts on his desk certainly hints that he will, he's just waiting for the right role, but then his agent has cautioned that he'll likely have to get through a lot of auditions and I think his confidence was shaken. I see now that it's possible for me to travel away from Jonah and he will be just fine, and I feel like Jonah believes that, too. My job can literally be done anywhere and while I don't have any interest in a permanent move away from London I could potentially be swayed into long stays just about anywhere Tom goes.   
  
Jonah clears his throat loudly and our mouths break into a smile against each other before Tom pulls back.     
"So," he says simply, leaving the word to hang in isolation.    
I know the rest, the words he's not saying and the question he's not asking, and he knows that I know. But Tom squirming is just too cute to pass up. His eyebrows do this funny sort of dance and he chews the inside of his lip before surrendering to a different approach with a quiet sigh.     
"Do you have anything planned this weekend?"    
"No. You?"    
"Nothing at all. Might be a good time to start that thing we talked about?"    
"Actually... I do have a lot to do."    
His face drops like a puppy who's favourite squeaky toy has sqwarked it's final breath. "Oh."    
I can't torture him any longer. "I mean, my belongings won't relocate themselves, and I'm really tired of searching boxes to find what I've already packed."    
"I didn't know you'd packed anything?"    
I nod and smile as his face lights up. "Everything that needs to be moved is packed, I did most of it last week when you were out."  
He doesn't need to know that I had to keep myself busy or I'd have been pacing the entire apartment. Since he returned he's talked a lot about Lauren, and then last week they went out for dinner. They're friends, nothing more, as he keeps telling me. I don't have any concerns on Tom's part, but the way she looks at him has an aura I can't quite define. It's not lust, or the old friend she's in love with, but it's something that sets my teeth on edge. Like they share a secret no one else -- including Tom, if his body language is any indication -- is privy to.   
  
"Excellent, that's settled then. Anything you feel like for dinner?"    
"Tom?"    
"Yes, my love?"    
"You have to make a decision."    
"Ehe." He bows his head and fingers the edge of his coffee cup, which barely takes up space in his huge hands. "I know. I know."    
I stand in front of him, resting my hands on his chest and keeping my voice low even though Jonah has earphones preventing him from overhearing. "Just go for it. Whatever you choose, wherever it takes you, I... I'll be there. By your side, every step. I've always got your back, whatever happens."    
He cocks his head uncertainly but there's a glint in his eye. "I thought you weren't ready for that."    
"I am now. Jonah will be just fine. Even if things don't work out with Caleb -- which I seriously doubt -- he's come a long way. It wouldn't be easy, but he would be okay."    
"I want to have another shot at film."    
"Then you'll have another shot." I take one of his hands in both of mine and bring his knuckles to my lips. "And you'll be amazing."    
"And if I'm not?"    
"You'll have me, and infinite possibilities. I'll support whatever you want to do. If you decide you want to try your hand at rocket science, I'll get you a math tutor."    
He throws his head back and laughs. "I love you so much."    
"I know." I stretch up to kiss him and he pulls me in deep until, as so often happens with Tom, we forget the rest of the world exists.   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Pack your bags, little lady! We're going to the city of angels!"    
I laugh without really looking up, not sure whether he was attempting a southern accent or impersonating Matthew McConaughey. "Are we now? Did you get an audition?"    
"I got ten, darling. Next week."    
I leap up from the chair and throw my arms around his neck. "I told you! I'm so proud of you!"    
"No jobs yet, just auditions. But it's a start. Did your passport arrive yet?"    
"No, I only put the application in two days ago."    
"We may have to call them and see if it can be expedited, you'll need it. We'll be spending two weeks there, is that all right?"    
"I think it's a good start, yeah." I lean in and kiss his lips.     
"If you need to come home sooner that's not a problem, I'll put you on a plane no questions asked."    
"How romantic," I reply, rolling my eyes.   
  
Now that I'm moved in and starting to unpack, and we're off to Los Angeles together for two weeks, it seems a belated time to be meeting Tom's family. Even more so since he was accosted by mine months ago, but his mum has been away since he returned from Australia and honestly the nerves swirling around my insides now are making me want to ask if we can put it off a bit longer.     
"Darling, it will be fine. They can't wait to meet you," he says on the phone. "I'll meet you at work, we can even have a quick stop for courage on the way."    
"Alcohol courage or sex courage?"    
"Whichever makes you feel better, I am at your service," he says with a laugh. "See you at five."    
Four o'clock drags along, then four-thirty. At four-forty-five I touch up my makeup and change my 'Rolling Stones' t-shirt for a lightweight pink sweater and re-style my hair three times. At five past five I start pacing around the office. Mister Punctual is late. Mister reliable isn't answering his phone, either. Ten past five. Half past five. Jonah and Caleb are on their way out together and I've half a mind to join them, but my phone rings.    
"I'm so sorry, darling. I had... had a meeting this afternoon and time got away. Can you meet me at home and we'll go from there?"    
"Sure." I try not to snap, but I'm more than a little annoyed. He sounds weird. Detached and insincere, not at all like my Tom. "Is everything okay?"    
"Yes, fine. I told you, we were discussing a project and lost track of the time. So I'll see you at home?"    
"I'm already on my way to the station."    
And he hangs up. No 'I love you' or even a clipped goodbye. Perhaps he got bad news.  
  
Tom's family are as warm and welcoming as mine and I immediately feel perfectly at home in his mum's beautiful house, surrounded by noise and laughter. Both of his sisters are teasing the living hell out of him and I feel like I belong here, with them. With Tom. Even so, something is off tonight and I can't put my finger on it. In the car on the way here I asked what happened at the meeting but aside from meeting some agent for coffee and losing track of time he's not giving anything away. During dinner his phone rings and he scowls so deeply at it that if it were human it would immediately burst into tears and toss itself melodramatically onto the floor, I'm sure. The second I've finished the last mouthful of his mother's amazing beef wellington he pounces, taking away plates and cutlery like an over-excited waiter.     
"Thomas," his mother scolds, "poor Olivia hadn't even set her fork down. What is going on with you?"    
"I just thought I'd clear up so we can have dessert," Tom says, adding a wink that is clearly an afterthought. It seems to satisfy Diana but not Sarah.    
"He's got ants in his pants tonight," she says matter-of-factly.     
"Definitely not his usual self," Emma says. "Teasing him is no fun when he doesn't give back."     
The conversation doesn't really recover from there, as though Tom is actively blocking all attempts with uncharacteristically short, sharp answers. At first I figured he was nervous about his family accepting me, perhaps no one could ever be good enough for their precious boy, but then he seemed more irritated than anything and I worried that his ire was aimed at me. As the night wears on -- painfully slowly, given that I seem to have been left carrying all conversation -- I realise his looks toward me are generally sympathetic, almost regretful. His shoulders are strung tight to his ears, that lovely neck considerably shortened, and when I rest my hand on his back I can feel the tension in every muscle through his shirt.   
  
On the way home he allows me to take his hand, kissing my knuckles robotically without more than a glance in my direction.     
"Tom, something is wrong. Please tell me what it is."    
"Nothing is wrong, darling. I'm just tired. Please forgive my short temper, it's been a long... a long day."    
"I've never seen you like this before."    
"Well, we haven't exactly been cohabiting for a long time, it's natural that I would previously have kept my less charming days to myself."    
"I guess so."    
That night as we slip in to bed he holds me tight as always, but when I nuzzle his neck he sighs.     
"I'm really tired, darling. Is it all right if we just go to sleep?"    
I tell him it's fine, and he falls silent. Eventually his breaths turn deep and even as he falls into sleep, but my mind is racing. Is he sick? Did I do something? Was it some important date and I didn't realise?  
  
The 'what ifs' keep me tossing and turning for hours, so it doesn't escape my notice that Tom's sleep is also fitful. That doesn't do anything to ease my fears, but at least for Tom the rising sun seems to bring a fresh start. When I wake up he's in the shower, already been for a run without waking me. A few minutes later he saunters in with a towel around his hips, leaning down to kiss me.     
"Good morning, beautiful," he says, his voice almost as cheery as usual.     
"Good morning. Is everything okay?"    
"Yes. I need to apologise for yesterday and last night, I was so short with you."    
"I was worried I'd done something to upset you."    
"Oh, darling." He lays down beside me and pulls me in close, placing a light kiss on my forehead. "Nothing like that. The meeting I had yesterday was supposed to be for an article but it got very personal and I suppose I was rattled."    
His damp skin has the faintest hint of soap about it, and his breath catches as my nose skims the side of his neck. He brushes the hair from my face and trails his fingertips down my spine until I shiver, pressing my body against him until I can feel the stirring of an erection through his towel. Stray thoughts tap at the edges of my conscious like a smitten teenager tossing rocks at the window, until one comes crashing through as he's chasing my lips. I pull back and blink up at him.     
"I thought you were meeting with an agent?"    
"Hm?"    
"Yesterday, you said it was an agent that kept you."    
"I did both, darling. It was a long day."    
"So was it the personal interview that made you late, or the agent? Because frankly if you were in the same sort of mood with the agent I'm surprised he wanted to converse with you at all." I bite my lip at my own sharp, accusatory tone, and the scowl he gives me makes me avert my eyes.     
"It was the interview, which if you must know began late because the agent kept me later than scheduled. All right?"    
I nod. "It's just that --"    
Tom rolls of the bed and stands before I can finish, dropping his towel to pull on a pair of jeans. "How about some breakfast? You have your shower, and I'll have it ready for you when you're done."    
And he's bounding toward the kitchen, my mouth still open with the rest of my words hanging unsaid in the air.  
  
_Just let it go,_  I tell myself as I step under the water. I can allow this to drive me crazy, or I can write it off as Tom having a stressful day and leave well enough alone. He loves me, I've never doubted that for a moment, and I trust him without question. Whatever is going on -- if anything -- will reveal itself in good time.   
  
After washing until my skin is pink I shut off the water and step in front of the mirror, blotting at my face with a fluffy towel. I think I'll do something different with my hair today. Braids, maybe even flat iron it and leave it down. Something out of the ordinary. As I open the bathroom door to release some of the steam I can hear Tom on the phone and somehow I immediately know whoever is on the other end is the same someone who tried to call yesterday evening. His voice has the same barely-controlled edge that his eyes had. Most of the words are impossible to make out through his clenched teeth and obvious attempts to resolve the conversation before I can finish dressing.    
"... of course I'm upset... no, it's not... it's because you chose the worst... how dare you imply... I need some time... no, we'll talk... damn it, Lauren, listen to me!"    
I'm in the hall, now, brought here on the same weightless tiptoes I practiced all those years ago in ballet lessons that seemed to drag on for hours. Miss Portia would be proud, I didn't make a sound. Tom's sigh is heavy, as though he's held his breath for hours.   
"I need some time to get my head around it," he says softly down the phone, his voice much more gentle and now just a few feet from me. "We'll talk on Monday, while Olivia is out. I'm sorry you're disappointed but that's the best I can offer right now. It hasn't even been twenty four hours, I need you to back off a bit."    
He releases a deep, shaky breath so sadly that I want to run the few steps to comfort him, but my legs will only scamper back to the bedroom. Sitting on the bed, I try to reconfigure what I heard into something that makes sense, something that doesn't point to Tom conspiring with Lauren, but it doesn't add up. Tom was with Lauren yesterday, and I know in my gut that she is the reason he wasn't himself last night. They're friends, I can live with that even if I have an uneasy feeling about her, but I won't tolerate him lying when something is obviously upsetting him.  
  
I'm standing in front of the wardrobe in my underwear when Tom comes in and wraps himself around me from behind, his warm bare chest comforting on my back even though he is the source of my distress. He hums and drags the hair back from my neck, kissing the spot where it meets my shoulder.     
"I love you, darling. Breakfast is in the kitchen but I thought I'd go out and get coffee for us both."    
"That sounds lovely," is what comes out, rather than the tirade of questions and insults swirling around my head.     
"I'll be back shortly, and you should stay just like that." He smiles and winks before he turns and leaves me wondering what the fuck is going on and why I didn't just ask. Only I did ask, and if I ask again it's just another opportunity to deceive me. Right now my heart can't take any more lies.  
  
_'...but at the length truth will out.'_  
 _Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act 2 Scene 2 Launcelot_


End file.
